Stained Glass Soul
by Mackenzie L
Summary: She falls from a tree. She falls from a cliff. She falls in love. The story of restless newborn vampire Esme Anne Platt and the shamelessly saintly Doctor Carlisle Cullen. Winner of 3 Hopeless Romantic Awards.
1. Summer Storms

**Stained Glass Soul**

**by Mackenzie L.**

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Firstly, a warm welcome to the one who reads. **Stained Glass Soul **is the complete story of Esme's transformation, detailing how she faces the challenges of being a newborn vampire, reconciles her faith in the afterlife, and falls in love with Carlisle Cullen. This story is canon-compatible, which means that it is plausible within the universe that Stephenie Meyer has created in the Twilight Saga.

This story is told in conjunction with my companion piece entitled **Behind Stained Glass**, where I post complementary chapters from Carlisle and Edward's viewpoints as this story progresses. To view this story, just visit my profile.

Stained Glass Soul, along with Behind Stained Glass, has been nominated for several categories in the 2011 Avant Garde Awards, the Inspired Fan Fic Awards, the Sunflower Awards, and the Vampies Awards. It also won 3 Hopeless Romantic Awards in 2011. I wish to thank those who sent in the nominations, and to everyone who spared a vote for my stories. I will be forever honored by your support!

_***The Twilight Saga and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. No profit is made from this work of fiction. No copyright infringement is intended.**_

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_"People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in their true beauty is revealed only if there is light from within."_

_~Elisabeth Kübler-Ross_

**Chapter 1:**

**Summer Storms**

The windows in Mr. Platt's Victorian farmhouse looked as though they were made of stained glass.

It was funny how the summer made them that way. From both inside and outside, the glass reflected every shade of green from nature that shimmered in the heat. It was like looking through a window into the way the world should be – that topsy-turvy, slow-churning, pleasantly dizzy feeling a kaleidoscope gives when rotated before an imaginative eye.

From the day Esme Anne Platt first learned to walk on two legs, she was smitten with the colors of the outside world. Her little hands pulled fistfuls of grass from the ground beneath her, and her round pink knees were bejeweled with bright green.

"She'll be a nature girl for certain," they all said.

They must have been prophets, because what they were so certain of did come true. Esme _was_ a nature girl. She was Mother Nature's favorite daughter, and her dreams were a bit too big for Mother Nature to hold. Esme's mind was quite like the earth itself. She imagined her brain to be like fine brown dirt, and her thoughts to be individual seeds, prepared for planting. She watered her thoughts with pure passion, and they were nourished with her hopes. Esme was planting a garden. Her childhood was one long, fragrant walk in the Eden of her artful mind.

She wasn't one for rules; she never had been. Her parents were strict, but their property was quite the opposite. There was so much to do here, so much to discover. How could they expect her to keep her elbows off the table? How could they expect her to stop fidgeting at teatime, or remember to put her stockings on every Sunday morning before mass?

Life was too short to spend worrying about stockings. At least Esme thought so.

Every year for Esme was a new adventure. Her love grew while the world around her stayed the same, but she made from it would she could. Like a good artist, she found colors where there were none. Her heart was dense but open, and she felt that she could open her heart in the way Moses had used holy magic to part the sea. Esme had passion, and everyone who knew her could see it. Unfortunately, the times were not so fond of such passion in a young lady, and that passion was suppressed. Esme was forced to hide her most treasured gift.

On her sixteenth birthday, Esme wished for freedom. She wished for an end to rules, and a spark to fire her dreams. She wanted to take flight and make new discoveries. She wanted to release the passion she had kept locked up inside all through her childhood. She wanted to uncover the jewels that lay beyond her father's farm. Esme wanted to live.

She would often sit by the faux-stained glass windows in the house on a warm afternoon, just imagining herself as a brave and beautiful heroine from one of her books. The stacks of literature that surrounded her were so tall, she had built a clever fortress around herself. Musty pages of books that were worn thin by her fingers and the mindless doodles of her drawing pencils could only offer her so much. Fairy stories protected her from the real world around her. But it was better here, Esme decided. The world within her mind was so much brighter, so much finer than the world of dreadful obligations. Here, she could be whatever she wanted to be.

As an artist, Esme was fascinated by the colors her imagined world had conjured. She was inspired by things that came not from the real world, but by things that existed quietly in the bold other-world of her mind. Somewhere in the wild green waves of summer, she longed to lose herself, to find a place where the air was sweet and the sun was kind.

Sensing it was time to join the colors that awaited her, Esme pulled herself out of her pillowed perch by the window and left her stockings behind.

The colors of summer never before looked so glamorous, so commanding, so crystal in their clarity. The door was closed so she went and opened it, welcoming the season inside.

She waited. But summer did not accept her invitation. So Esme invited herself outside and made herself at home.

It was a lovely house she had found here – the dewy, soft bed of grass, the hovering canopy of thick, glossy leaves – an artificial ceiling of green lace against a piercing blue sky. That blue was a variegated blend of all of nature's blues – of Caribbean seas, of melting glaciers, of cornflowers, of robin's eggs. This blue was positively frustrating in its sheer aesthetic beauty to the point of annoyance. It was beautiful enough to ignite a mysterious envy in one's heart, senseless as it was for someone to be jealous of a color.

But it was just a part of summer – the season that followed the spring with such frightening loyalty.

The spring gave fair warning, subtle foreshadowing to the chaos that was inevitably to follow.

Because summer meant thick, humid air, searing temperatures, a lesser breeze that allowed for the most minimal breathing. The air was so moist that one might possibly see a rainbow hovering like a mirage in the invisible mirror of floating particles.

Summer was fertility and frondance, clouds of pollen and waterfalls of nectar, violent multiplication, germination and reproduction.

A myriad of seeds danced through sun-burnished air with no apologies for number, no qualms on the fault of their dispense, no disputes concerning rightful possession. The dusting of pollen became a soft, powdery luggage of butterflies and honeybees. The gossamer beads were tossed from plants in all directions, disorganized and willingly chaotic. They landed wherever space allowed them and started new life. No matter how cluttered things got out there, there was always miraculously room for more. Much, much more.

Various vegetation sprouted from organic soil, pulling like fine, willowy green hairs from the dirt, swaying in the whisper of a breeze. Leaves in a rainbow of greens – jade and olive, apple and pear – shifted under shade and sun rays. Ivy spiraled in its snakelike embrace up the hearty brown trunks of trees and unraveled again in sinewy, grand green waves from the highest branches. Flowers completed the forgotten colors of the spectrum, growing over top of each other, piling up in walls, in carpets, in roofs – a mansion of their own.

Everything was of that startlingly smoldering green for as far as the eye could see. A kingdom of upheaval ruled by Green.

Summer _was_ that green. It was a green that shocked after its absence from the months prior. It was the green that one never remembered with quite the accuracy and clarity that it promised. It was lush. It was fruitful. It was growing at a rapid, indecent, uncatchable pace.

The days were spectacular, but the nights were magical. Clear indigo sky stretched like a velvet canvas, sprayed with twinkling stars that made music when one listened closely enough. The moisture hung in the air, a warm current in which fireflies swam like lazy little fairies, their dreamy neon bulbs like a pulse for the silent darkness. Glowworms slugged along through castles of mud and dirt. Crawling things pressed a slow, secret path where the grass grew so tall to resemble a washed out field of frayed green wheat. Crickets chirped in singular and plural, a sweet symphony that lulled every creature to a deep, luxurious slumber.

And in the morning, the buzzing hymn of locusts took over – the mumbling monotone of thickness and heat. One had only to hear their song and know that a splendid and suffocating humidity awaited.

It sometimes seemed as though the insufferable heat was indestructible. But there was a force that could overcome it in the form of a signature summer thunderstorm.

Rain poured down in bulbous pellets, cool droplets flooding the bed of dandelion crusted grass. Flowers' petals slurped the water as it fell generously on all that had only to grow to more ridiculous heights. Fruit swelled, budding blossoms bloomed to the size of the sun itself, grass spurted, vines sneaked like serpents up the trees. Thunder rumbled in the distance – a groggy, lazy sound. Lightning flashed dimly, colored by the tangible haze of atmospheric layers – pink in the western corner of the sky, aquamarine to the north, orange in the east, violet in the south. Thick clouds of malicious gray cotton billowed overhead, so low that it felt one could reach up and touch them individually, and pull them from their stationary hammock in the sky. Mesmerizing undertones of blue and green glowed dull behind the pulsing puffs of cumulonimbus, like coiling mounds of sea foam, until the clouds parted and the sun's harsh golden rays speared right through again.

The storms passed after time, either fleeting or hovering, never failing to leave behind a considerably thicker jungle in their path.

And today, Esme sensed a storm.

The anticipatory scent of sweet humidity hung in the thick, hazy air. Dull flashes of lightning taunted her from their distance – some visible lines spreading like electric skeleton fingers across the wall of cloud. A storm was beginning, not just in the sky, but in her destiny. She could just sense it.

She had to have a better view, a front row seat for this spectacular show.

Rushing back inside the house, Esme gathered her favorite books and tucked them beneath her elbow. She rushed through the stuffy rooms of the house, carefully avoiding anyone who might see her and assign her to do some dull chore before she could have her fun. She stuffed her feet into her leather boots, entirely inappropriate for a summer's day – but she had big plans for those boots. Racing her heartbeat, Esme burst out the door, laughing to herself as she went, feeling delightfully victorious as the sunlight welcomed her outside.

She waltzed across the field with her books in hand, grinning impishly as the house behind her dissolved further and further into the distance.

There was but one tree on the property Esme had climbed before. She knew it well. Every one of its branches was a faithful friend, willing to help her ascend to great heights. The tree was small but it was perched perfectly on a hill, and that made it an ideal place for her to watch the storm. Her leather boots were comfortable and easy to climb in. No one wore boots in the summer, except for teenage girls who climbed trees. She never got a single scratch that way.

She had waited so very long to climb this tree again. It would taunt her with its perfectly shaped branches and rich green leaves from her bedroom window every morning and every night. She never thought of it as a danger. It was the smallest tree in sight, but it was somehow more special than the others. No one really paid any attention to it. It reminded Esme of herself.

Esme clutched each branch with cautious hands that slowly became less cautious as she climbed. By the fourth branch she found, her hands were haphazard in their clutching. She felt feral and beautiful, like a jungle princess with a crown of fallen leaves and lovely tears in her skirts and smudges of dirt on her stockings.

The leaves were so thick she could hide away from the rest of the world up here. Maybe she would never come back down...

The clouds grew agitated from the weight of the rain they held within their bellies. Another growl of thunder shook the earth beneath her, making the leaves tremble and the locusts scatter.

This was going to be a lovely storm.

Her mother called to her from the window, but a teenage girl in leather boots couldn't be bothered to hear the one voice whose only hope was to spoil her fun.

_"You'll likely get struck by lightning!"_ the familiar voice warned from across the tiny field.

A mother _would _say that.

A frustrated groan echoed inside the treetop just as the sole of a leather boot caught haphazardly on the next branch up...

In a matter of an instant the beautiful storm had begun and ended.

And the reckless sixteen-year-old farm girl had missed the entire show.

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**A/N: Thank you for reading my story. If you have the time to review, I would appreciate it, and don't forget to take a look at Behind Stained Glass by visiting my profile. You can also find the link for the banner I made for this story on my profile.**


	2. Healed and Gone

**Chapter 2:**

**Healed and Gone**

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The doctor would be here soon. They kept saying that.

_The doctor will be here soon._

Never before had Esme imagined she would be so desperate for any one person to arrive at her house. But she certainly was now, waiting with her leg hitched up in the most awkward of positions on the sitting room sofa. Having been dropped several times by the well-meaning farmhands who had gallantly carried her in, her leg was most likely in worse condition than it had been before.

She realized far too late that she should have never worn her best dress while climbing a tree. The ends had been torn – all that pretty sunshine-yellow lace ruined. Mother would be certain to have a fit. Bits of grass and dirt stuck to the fabric, making Esme look like a child's rag doll that had been dropped in the yard. A rag doll with a broken leg. And now when she looked down at the mangled mess of crooked bones that made up her right calf, she wondered if it would ever be the same.

Her eyes prickled with tears at the thought of losing her leg. Positive thinking was so very overrated.

What would happen if the doctor never did arrive? What if she were to wait here for the rest of her life and never be serviced by her right leg again? _What if?_

Oh, but this was sure not to happen. Doctors could be trusted, after all.

Esme sighed woefully as the final flickers of lightning flashed outside the windows, illuminating the empty parlor with eerie blue sparks. She waited for the clap of thunder to follow, but it was not so loyal. Instead, a distant grumble sounded, like an old man stirring in his sleep.

Reaching for her glass of water, Esme winced as a shudder of sharp pain reached from her leg to her middle. Every way she tried to turn, something would hurt. Her eyes were watering enough to make her thirsty, but she couldn't reach far enough for that glass that taunted her on the table beside the sofa.

She needed someone to rescue her.

As if by a miracle, sounded by the final chime of the clock, Esme's sensitive ears picked up the clip-clop of several pairs of shoes on the old checkerboard tiles in the foyer. A moment later the bustling housekeeper slipped through the doors to the parlor, discreetly fanning her round face which had flushed to resemble a ripened peach. With a squeak of a voice, she informed the dim room's only occupant that the doctor had arrived.

The teenager swiped at her teary eyes with a forceful finality. She refused to be seen by the doctor looking so broken and immature. She could be strong if she only held her head up high.

"I'm afraid she's been without attention for nearly two hours now," the housekeeper chirped as she moved to light the way for the physician with a shallow candle.

"Poor child."

The two words were spoken in the softest, most lovely tenor voice Esme had ever heard.

Suddenly, she had forgotten all about needing a glass of water.

She did not dare move her head for fear that the tiniest movement might cause her more pain, and so she was utterly unprepared for the sight that suddenly entered her field of vision.

He must have been the doctor, but... this was entirely preposterous. The entire room seemed to change around her. The air itself became chilly, tremulous. Everything was so...different.

Esme was unable to tear her gaze away from the strange man as he crossed the room with unmatched grace. She thought it very odd that he would be wearing such excessive clothing in the summer, even if it had been raining outside. He wore clothing that was outdated by several decades, but it was rich clothing, the kind wealthy men wore in the books she read. In a series of impossibly deft movements, he removed his gloves and shrugged his dark overcoat off of his shoulders. Waiting on his heels already, the housekeeper took the discarded articles of clothing a little too eagerly into her plump hands.

He turned around, and Esme took a breathless moment to look at her doctor for the first time.

He was as pale as a lily, with unusually brilliant blond hair, and looked much too young to be a fully certified physician. And even though Esme had only watched him for less than a minute at the most, he was quite easily the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on.

He did not even look like a _real person_. Like something out of a painting, perhaps – but even that was too mundane – some sort of wingless angel in disguise as a physician. A prince straight out of a fairy tale book. He looked so intimidating, so untouchable in his stinging perfection that she was almost afraid of him.

He was _suspiciously_ attractive.

His sympathetic gaze fell on her where she lay in an awkward sprawl across the sofa, and Esme flushed madly, turning her eyes down before she could allow them to wander any more over that face which she'd perceived to be perfect at first glance. She told herself adamantly that all of the commotion had simply gone to her head. It was only the poor lighting in this room that played a trick on her lightheaded gaze.

But with the hasty addition of an oil lamp by her side, Esme was startled to find that her doctor was only more handsome in the light.

He seemed to positively glow in the candlelight, his hair shining like gold silk, his snow-white skin luminous, just tainted with the faintest rosy hue on his cheeks. His lips were that same shade of rose, shyly deeper in color. They were set in a perfect, concentrated pout as he shifted the leather bag to his lap and quickly searched its contents. His eyes were covered by surprisingly dark lashes, and his brow, while narrowed severely, somehow still managed to look inexplicably soft. Everything about him was ethereal, soft, and gentle. Even the way he moved.

"You mustn't try to get up, Miss_,_" he ordered soothingly, and she noticed with great surprise that she had involuntarily leaned upward at his approach – and felt no pain. "You will do fine to remain just as you are."

He had the slightest trace of a formal accent when he spoke, the voice of one who was quite clearly well-bred.

Every time he moved, even the faintest bit, it sent a rush of fragrant air washing over and through her. It was an intoxicating, crystalline perfume – something like vanilla, but far sweeter; a little like citrus, but far sharper. He smelled like the inside of a church after all the candles had been blown out, and a bit like the last day of winter.

He asked for her name, and she gave it timidly. Never did her name sound so small as it did when she'd said it. But his kindness never wavered, and he introduced himself as _Doctor Cullen_, in that same gentle, cottony tone. Then he smiled.

There was no way for Esme's young feminine mind to comprehend how a man's smile could be so angelic. His lips were small, shapely, almost delicate. They set a strange contrast to the rest of his face, which was inexorably masculine, from the chiseled contours of his cheekbones to the elegant but firm angle of his jaw. The genial gesture drew her attention up into his eyes, and she barely suppressed a gasp at the completely indecent shade of brilliant, honey-gold that gazed boldly back at her.

He was most certainly something unreal.

His exquisite eyebrows knitted together as he looked down to assess her throttled leg, tutting softly. Then he pierced her in place again with his gentle gaze and asked her how it had happened.

Esme stumbled along her response, suddenly having forgotten half the words in the English language. An endearing dimple flashed teasingly on the left side of her doctor's mouth as he politely looked away, having mercy on her in her struggle, and her pulse fluttered madly.

As a young and enthusiastic artist, Esme was tortured by the perfection of Doctor Cullen's every expression. Even then, with her leg in throbbing pain and her throat dry from a lack of hydration, her fingers were trembling with the urge to garnish a canvas full with this man's every feature. Impressionistically, she could do wonders with the inspiration his face instilled within her heart.

He murmured something about climbing trees not being a common activity among young ladies, and all she could do was drink in the delightful drawl of his voice as he spoke.

She watched his fingers moving, in eager anticipation, knowing that at some point he would be physically handling her. With a healthy dose of guilt, her heartbeat quickened at the thought. It seemed all too improper and nearly unthinkable for a man so unspeakably handsome, and a bit scandalously...virile...to touch her in any manner, no matter how clinical.

But not a second later, he asked her permission to feel for the break.

With a wordless nod, she granted him permission...to touch her.

Three cool fingers applied an almost frustratingly gentle pressure to the sensitive space of skin approximately two inches above her knee. If her leg had not been practically paralyzed, Esme would have jerked back in surprise at the chilly temperature of the doctor's skin.

His fingers pressed experimentally along the line of her calf, every time asking if it hurts here... or _here_... then maybe _here_...

She shook her head every time, because nothing that came from this doctor's exquisite hands could have ever caused her pain.

Until she flinched.

A tiny squeak of discomfort alerted him to the fractured bone, and he braced both hands around her leg with a look of pity on his lovely face. He whispered a husky apology before he set the bones, but nothing could have prepared Esme for the brutal shards of pain that clawed at her helpless limb between his hands.

A regrettably embarrassing minute followed where Esme was reduced to the kind of blubbering, uncontrollable weeping more suited to a toddler. Her nerve-endings damned the beautiful doctor for causing such an uproar in her poor broken body, but her heart settled in the midst of her distress as he hushed her patiently with a gelid hand on her shoulder.

Esme's plans to be seen by the doctor as a mature and collected young lady were hopelessly ruined. But for reasons unknown she was unable to care anymore. Something was telling her that it was all right to be seen this way. Everything in her doctor's face, in his eyes, showed nothing but divine sympathy and understanding. This expression of care without cause was so unlike anything she had received from those around her. It was intimidating in its intimacy, but so heartwarming it almost brought her tears of gratefulness.

When Esme finally collected the courage to look down, her leg was no longer twisted in sickly deformity. She cocked her head with a swipe to her puffy pink eyes and gazed fondly down at the leg she used to know.

He had fixed her.

Doctor Cullen took her leg and wrapped it securely, while she watched his enchanting butterscotch gaze in utter captivation. He tended to the rest of her bruises with a gentleness that made her stomach turn somersaults. He prescribed medications in his silk-thread voice and wished her the best of health with an exultant half-smile that obliviously fueled a year's worth of fruitless daydreams.

And then he swept the dark overcoat across his shoulders, slipped the gloves back over his hands, and left her to heal on her own.

He was gone before she had the chance to thank him.

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**A/N: **_If you felt like this was a little short for a first meeting, don't worry. This was just the "vague memory" version that Esme remembers from her childhood. The extended version of this night can be found under Chapter 20 of my companion story,_** Behind Stained Glass.**

_I have also written a more detailed account of this event which can be found in the second chapter of my story_** Blink to Break the Magic. **

_If you are interested in reading about this night from Carlisle's perspective, you can find his version of the story in the second chapter of my story_ **Our Love is Art.**


	3. Only Salvation

**Chapter 3:**

**Only Salvation**

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Esme had lost her entire sense of character.

One single fall from an innocent tree had jolted the rebellious nature straight out of her and stunned her into a submissive daze. For once she was seen as the proper young lady that society and her parents revered. But inside she was filled to the brim and overflowing with _nothing. _Sometimes she returned to that very tree in the middle of the night, during a quiet spring rain shower or a soft winter snow. It welcomed her back always with open branches, but it never let her fall.

Everything in her life seemed to revolve around the concept of "falling."

What was it about falling that had struck her in such a profound way?

Was it the breathless seduction of losing all control? The submission to empty air as a means of escape? The hopeless surrender to the listless will of gravity?

There was no denying it; Esme was smitten with falling.

A young woman should have had so many things to look forward to for her future, but Esme was an exception to all the rules. As a debutante, she kept her face hidden behind a carefully lifted sleeve. She shied away from every man her father attempted to introduce her to. Into the baking hot sun of the farmer's fields she ran to escape it all, wishing for a way to disguise among the wildflowers. She was always running downhill when she ran away. Never uphill. Never towards the sky. Eventually the rest of her dreams were beckoned to tumble down the hill, the rest of her life racing close behind.

Her parents grew ruthless in seeking out suitors. At the age of eighteen, Esme was taken from city to city around the state with a wealthy godfather to find an equally wealthy business man with whom she would presumably find love. Esme wondered why everyone around her seemed to think of love as something that could be constructed. Love was not like the architectural wonders she had seen on her pointless travels to Pittsburgh or Charleston. Love could not be built with a sturdy foundation of concrete and pillars. It was not lavish or decorative for the purpose of attracting people to come inside. For Esme, love was something far more special than that. It hurt her deeply that she was on a constant search for it when she had always dreamed it would simply come to her. Love should have found _her_. One night, perhaps, during a humid summer thunderstorm...

As many times as her thoughts drifted back to the mysterious blond doctor, she had always found a way to shun them away. It was too painful to dwell on him, to remember the care he had shown her, or the way he had whispered promises of the pain soon to end. He was meant to be forever trapped in the back of her mind, a long-kept and deeply buried secret – a dream that would never come true.

As a child, Esme had so many dreams. It was a tragic shame that she had lost every one of them as the years steadily added to her age. Before she knew it, her teenage years were over. She was losing not only her innocence, but her excuses as well. Marriage was no longer a crucial endeavor, it was now a desperately nagging chore to be chopped off the check-list.

The rest of her family would murmur about her marriage behind closed doors when they thought she could not hear. They would introduce her to men who hardly cared to know her name more than her face. They would hold court at a round table and map out her future for her.

That was just the way things were done.

All the while she longed for nothing more than to waltz like a mad fairy through the wheat fields of Ohio forever, with her laces undone and her heart in her hands. But such an aspiration for a way of life was preposterous.

They laughed at her.

Young ladies with their fingers hooked between the tiny porcelain handles of their teacups.

Young men who were told from birth that women must be confined to the hearth.

Elderly couples who saw little hope for her as the sands of time sifted between her bare toes.

_Since when was Time her enemy? Surely Time would wait up for her._

Time had gone by so slowly as a child. Esme remembered when Time would sit behind her in the flower bed and run its fingers lazily through her caramel locks, telling her that it would always be there for her. But she was no longer a child. This she consistently – and conveniently – forgot.

In the summer of 1917, Esme was introduced to the man who would be her husband. Even in the beginning, she had been uneasy around him. His presence was the perfect opposite of comforting. He was neither a harbor nor a haven, and he offered only the greens of a bank account. Esme preferred the greens of nature.

Charles Evenson did not know this. He knew nothing about the woman he had asked to be his wife, besides the fact that she was female and she was desperate for a man to call a husband – or at least her parents were. The arrangements went too quickly for any woman to maintain her sanity. Before Esme knew it, she was assigned a new life, her past entirely erased save for a few brightly spotted memories.

And so she found herself in a house which she would never call her own, a house that she would not dare call _home. _She was shown no mercy because she was nothing but a useless fool – a woman with no sensibility and no purpose except to please her husband who never found pleasure in her.

Surly businessman by day and wasted lecher by night, Evenson remained married to his wife for convenience, and she remained married to him for the sake of sparing her family another scandal.

In the end, if there ever was one, nobody won.

He kept her hidden in the house to hide the evidence of his misconduct behind closed walls. In the beginning, it had been a relief to remain unseen, but after only a year or so the loneliness attacked Esme with feverish delusions and terrorizing nightmares.

She never spoke to anyone but the shadows on the wall. Her eyes might have seen another woman, like her, scampering across the street from an upstairs window. But this woman was younger, happier – she rushed into her house with eagerness, not dread.

Esme could only dream of having a home like that.

The days when she could leave the house were few and in between. She chose days that were dreary so that she could pull a hat over her head and hide the bruises on her face. Charles never wanted her to leave the house, but on the rare occassion that he was working late or visiting clients, she was free to do as she wished. Sometimes it took courage even to be free in his absence. Sometimes she still feared for her safety, even though no one was around to strike her.

Charles was a looming threat, stalking her with every step she took. She was cursed to live forever in fear, whether he was behind her or not. Her eyes glanced over her shoulder nervously with every imaginary step she heard behind her, in the wake of her path.

There was a small cemetery by their neighborhood. Often she found herself walking past it in the evenings and fantasizing about being buried there one day. Soon.

Her hands clung to the iron gate, peering inside as if watching some exotic display in the traveling zoo. Esme both envied and admired the corpses who were free beneath the soil. They slept a proud sleep under mournful Hellenistic figures, with their stone curls and concrete gowns, staring down at her with knowing expressions, their empty eyes taunting her.

To be thinking of death so often, in such a wistful light, was most certainly not a good sign.

Esme was through with being trapped, through with being so stuffed with nothing that she could scarcely find air. The days only grew darker the longer she spent hidden away from the rest of the world, fearing everything that crossed her path. The war of the nation made a microcosm in her heart. Behind her innocent hazel eyes, she was plotting, scheming for escape. Plan after failed plan simmered under the surface, steadily seeming less like foolish fantasies and more like promising possibilities.

On the last day of spring in 1920, Esme discovered her only purpose to live on. God had designated her a vessel for new life. She was a keeper of one innocent soul, one tiny light who deserved to know love like his mother had never known it. In her unborn child, Esme found the last spark of inspiration needed to ignite her fire.

Six months passed before her determination had bested her courage. Later, perhaps, she would regret having waited too long out of fear. But those regrets could only harm her in hindsight. In a final blast of reckless bravery, Esme boldly made her escape.

She fled not for herself, but for that tiny person with no voice – that person who would know no father, but who would have a life of joy even if his mother had to sell her soul to the devil himself. It was almost impossible for a woman to travel alone. To find housing and manage money was even harder, but Esme knew she had no choice but to do the impossible.

In the outskirts of town, she found refuge with an old farmer who knew the land and befriended a young collie who reminded her of what it once meant to be happy.

Esme wanted so dearly to know happiness once again, but by the end of that exhausting year she could barely remember what the emotion thrived on. To that final day there remained only one memory she could link with true happiness.

It hurt so much when she remembered _him_.

Her mind brimmed with a whirling series of pearly images – his face, dove-white and viciously compassionate, for one instant in time – locked in the all-negative quadrant of her memory's coordinate plane. The clarity was remarkable, the details disturbing and upsetting.

The way he said her name. His breathy voice – preposterously gentle, a velveteen rasp. So clearly, for one moment. She struggled to grasp it, and it slipped from her hold. Like a word on the tip of her tongue, a recollection so vague that it taunted the mind.

Eyes like opalescent fire. Truth, trust, and a terrifying heat. She recalled for a distinct moment, his gaze, his attention; how it made her sore. How she wanted more of those eyes, that color. How she sunk into the gilded ocean of his stare and sacrificed the buoyancy of her very soul so that she could drown in his essence.

_Doctor Cullen._

The name itself sounded so foreign, being so long since she'd last dared to say it. It frightened her that she had almost forgotten it. She whispered it from the tip of her tongue, recalling the way it had once made her heart leap with mirth.

Now it filled her chest with lead.

He could be hers in this sad little universe that was her fantasy. And her life would go on around her, painful, dissatisfying, and cruel. So unlike how it would be if _he_ were a part of it. He would make everything perfect. These thoughts were dangerous, but here she was at last free to think of him. Here, she had nothing left but the dust of a new road stirred beneath her sandals. Here, she was all alone, with a budding infant beneath her bosom, and a woman's heart was too tender to take what the world had to offer.

With a heavy heart and a bundle of life stirring restlessly inside of her, Esme watched the sun rise in Wisconsin the same way she watched it in Ohio. It tried to make her smile with its warm and wild colors – blue and turquoise and orange and pink. Sunrise was so much like _him. _Bittersweet and fleeting.

But the sun was reality. It kept her away from these foolish fantasies, until suddenly they were senseless.

A war had broken out within her heart, should she be taunted with the somber beauty of her doctor's porcelain face. Her dreams were her cradle. She retreated, astonished and dismembered by her own agony. The days were now simplistic, elementary. Esme felt herself regressing into a strange state of disconnect with the outside world. Hospitalized under the care of light-voiced nurses and concerned physicians, she realized that she had lived through her glory days. Those days had been short and fleeting, but so significant. She had conquered her greatest fear to save her son, and this gave her a sense of peace, even now as she lay weak on her bed. She had been a warrior to the last hour, a woman of fierce maturity – a mother of fiery protection.

The taste of that victory was still slightly sweet on her tongue. She smiled as she envisioned herself being a mother with this same bravery and sense of conquest. But as she looked down and saw that her legs could barely move and her arms were rich with bruises, she realized that even the bravest warrior must accept her time of weakness when it comes.

At this last precipice in her life, there existed only one dimension in Esme's universe – that which beckoned all infinite forces toward the memory of an angel she had known on one stormy summer night. It encompassed all elements, all nature, all energy, within which _he_ was the vortex. It was a powerful resignation she had chosen to make, but a quiet one, done in the silent infirmity of her mind. With a tiny tendril of faith, Esme asked for strength to face the unknown future she knew lay lurking on her horizon.

******-}0{-**

The clock chimed downstairs. Midnight.

This was the night. She had one chance. One window of opportunity for escape. This was it.

If she wanted to spare the life of herself and her unborn child, she had to be brave for once. Just this once...

Even the small carpet bag Esme carried was a burden to her weak body as she frantically shut the lights off in every room of the house. It was windy outside but not frightfully cold. She was going to have to walk the distance to Mr. Kimble's house.

Gerald Kimble owned a small shoe shop on the outskirts of town. He was not well known, but he had been a distant friend of hers for the few years they had lived outside Columbus. It was rumored that he would be leaving for a town by Lake Michigan tomorrow morning.

He would be by himself. He would not be returning. He was a quiet man who rarely asked questions. He cared about her.

It was ideal, if only luck would have it be so.

The seven month old baby in her belly heaved against her as though sensing her distress.

Nearly ten minutes into the walk, Esme collapsed by a tree, her knees already giving way from the strain. It was disturbingly quiet on the wooded path. Only the hoot of an owl, or the chirp of a cricket would disrupt her troubled train of thoughts.

Then she would pick herself up again, and continue the journey by her own force. At one point in the woods, it was so dark that she could see nothing but the witchy fingers of tree branches silhouetted against the moonlight. Then the clouds would cover the lone silver orb above, banishing light from her path.

This was when she rested.

An hour. She was halfway there.

Reminding herself of the time was foolish. All she remembered was that it was with gravest importance that she leave that house, that she stay as far away from that man as possible.

Her legs ached, particularly her right leg – especially right in the very middle of her calf...

She dared to let her memory flash with the image she had long forced herself to forget. But she had never fully let go of his face.

This was that same leg.

Esme ran her fingers over her cold, stocking-covered flesh, tracing the path _his _hand had once traced.

Had he even been real?

Part of her continued to believe in him, but it just seemed so long ago. Her memories were weakened by the effects of time and long-suffering. Perhaps she had only hallucinated her childhood doctor.

But no. He was real. He had to be.

Her attempt at living would be in vain if he wasn't.

That was the only reason she continued to live. Esme had never admitted it to herself before, but tonight it was painfully clear. She was living in the hopes that one day, against all odds, _he_ would appear in her life again, and she would somehow find the courage to profess her love for him. Her foolish, unrealistically hopeful love that had no merit other than the wistful treachery of her heart.

Proof that a higher power was on her side would consist in his _return_ of her love.

That was inconceivable.

Esme sighed and wiped the tears from her eyes, leaning against the tree trunk. Things only _seemed_ so hopeless now because it was the dead of night, and she was all alone in the middle of an unfamiliar forest, on a life-defining escape from her abusive husband.

Yes, she reminded herself, in the morning it would all seem slightly better.

The simple fact that Doctor Cullen existed somewhere in this God-forsaken world was what brought her to her feet for the final stretch.

She had estimated the trip to Kimble's home to be approximately two hours by foot. But by the time she arrived at his doorstep, more dead than alive, it had felt as though she had been walking for days.

The faint, dusty yellow glow of the lantern hanging by his back door was the most welcome sight Esme had seen in years. Her blood pounded with renewed energy in her ears as she knocked breathlessly on the wood, one hand situated instinctively on the bump in her abdomen.

During the bated silence she waited for another soul to answer the door, Esme began to doubt anyone would be awake at such a late hour. And if he had been asleep, it was necessary that she wake him for her own good. Charles had the advantage if he returned home and noticed she was missing. Where he would look first was beyond her, but she had to take the risk in assuming this was one the last places he would think to look…

She knocked again, desperately, using all her power to keep from shouting out loud.

Her ears perked suddenly at the distinct patter of feet on the floor inside the weakly insulated home. A light shone through the small window of the door just as it flew open, revealing a rumpled and alarmed Mr. Kimble, still in his bedclothes. His graying hair was unkempt and his face was ashen.

"Mrs. Evenson?" He croaked in disbelief, using her unfamiliar title. She nearly broke down right then.

"Gerald... May I come in, please? It's urgent." She barely recognized her voice. Having gone for hours breathing in the bitterly cold night air, it was painful to speak.

The old man's severely concerned gaze dropped to her stomach, and instantly he pulled her arm across the threshold and shut the door behind her. Esme noticed his usually cluttered house was all but cleared of everything but the picture-less frames on the walls. He was already prepared to leave.

"My God, what on earth happened, Esme?" he demanded, his voice still sleep-ridden but rising in intensity. He guided her to a worn chair in the corner of the room where his scruffy border collie was sleeping soundly underneath.

"It's... Charles," she sobbed, her hands shaking so violently that she could not grip the armrests. "I'm so sorry to disturb you, Gerald," she stuttered apologetically, her mind spinning in all directions.

"Not a disturbance, Esme," he insisted forcefully, crouching beside her chair. "Please. Tell me what happened, dear. What did he do to you?"

The dog beneath her whimpered at the rousing excitement of their troubled voices.

"He_–_" Her voice broke and she froze, realizing all at once that she was unable to speak of such horrible things to anyone.

How could she, when she could not even bring herself to _think_ of them?

Fresh sobs wracked Esme's body and her head fell to her hands in despair. She felt the old man's unsure hand settle on her shoulder as he conjectured slowly, "You want to leave with me?"

She nodded fiercely, overcome with a wave of shuddering relief at his understanding.

"Please..." Her voice was miserable, watery. So, so tired.

"Of course, Esme," he assured with a pat on her shoulder. "We'll get you out of here."

He rose to his feet with shocking energy for an elderly man who had been woken in the middle of the night. "We should leave right away, shouldn't we?"

Esme nodded again, wordlessly, and struggled to her feet as well. Gerald gave her an unreadable look and lifted the lantern to his face as he rushed through the cramp rooms of the single level house, searching for anything he might have missed in packing.

He set the last of his belongings into a half-filled trunk by the door, then made his way over to the whimpering collie.

"Come on, Barry, you old fool," he grunted as he nudged the shaggy dog out from its hiding place. He clipped a collar to its neck and latched his fingers around the black band, leading the animal out the door.

"Bring your bag out to the truck, dear." He hissed as he bustled out the door, gesturing for her to follow.

She obeyed quickly, gathering up her carpetbag and heading out to the small, rusty farm truck parked on the gravel driveway a few meters from the house.

He opened the back door, encouraging his dog to go inside. "That a boy," he whispered in approval as the fluffy tail disappeared into the darkness of the truck.

He turned to Esme. "You next."

She was inside before he could finish the second word. The door slammed shut with a satisfying clunk. Inside her something settled with relief that it was finally happening. She was getting out of here.

Through the caked dust of the car window Esme watched as Mr. Kimble limped hastily back into the house, and appeared less than a minute later with his last trunk in tow and a pair of brown riding boots under his nightshift. He extinguished the flames of both his handheld lantern and the one hanging over his door.

He heaved the large antique into the back bed of the truck with surprising spryness and crunched the gravel with his boots as he came around the front of the vehicle.

"You all right, now?" he asked as soon as he perched himself in the driver's seat, his eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror.

She nodded. "Yes." Her voice was still so weak.

Barry's tongue lolled from between his toothy dog grin as he blinked his large eyes

curiously at her from behind the piles of boxes and suitcases between us. His innocent expression and persistent huffing brought her an odd sense of comfort.

The engine of the old truck rumbled to life, and Esme's relief doubled as she felt the tires roll across the gravel. The tires at last met with the less bumpy dirt road; gears shifted and they were driving forward, away from Ohio, with the West ahead of them.

Her eyes fluttered open as she felt the warm brush of dog's fur against her leg. She yawned tiredly and looked down at Barry's cold, wet nose and glassy black eyes.

The thick layer of dust on the back windows of the truck did not keep her from noticing that the sun had now risen. The faint light that followed us on the long dirt road filled her with even more hope than she had expected. It helped remind her that every mile they drove put her that much further from Charles.

Esme smiled wearily down at the dog by her legs and hugged her belly protectively.

"I've got some water for you." Mr. Kimble said, reaching back to place a thin green glass bottle into her hand.

"Thank you." She rasped gratefully, stifling another yawn.

His eyes furrowed in the mirror.

"Where will I go?" she wondered out loud, her stare blank as she watched the slow-moving fields from the window.

The old brow in the mirror wrinkled further at her question. "Hospital."

Just that one word, and her worry was cured.

The hospital meant safety – an escape from the cruelty and pain of the unpredictable outside world.

A slight pang hit her that she would be parted from the kind man who had helped her in her escape. But a new life would come with it.

Esme spurred with hope at the thought.

A new life.

The fleeting image of a pale, fiercely handsome man in a white coat flashed in the forefront of her mind, then was gone just as swiftly as it arrived.

She would not allow that kind of hope to seize her. Her heart would remain devoted to a figment that existed in the very deepest sinews of her memory, but it would not be broken over it. There was someone new in her life who would be craving her devotion.

She cradled her belly tightly, closing her eyes and concentrating on the slight movement there. Just thinking of what joy her baby would bring her made her smile, no matter how hopeless her current situation seemed.

She would make sure that at least one of them made it through this mess.

Ashland was just as rainy as Columbus had been. But it was colder, being close to the lake, and drearier from the natural darkness of the clouds that hung low in the dank autumn atmosphere.

It was sad having to part with the kind man who had aided in her escape. She had let him know many times as they shared a final embrace what a blessing he had been to her. He smiled back at her, wished her well, and was on his way, back to his family. And she was left to start her own.

The last time she had been in a hospital had been the day she had purposefully plunged a nail into her wrist with the hope of being treated by a specific physician a second time... because once just wasn't enough.

The hospital here outside of Ashland was much larger and more sophisticated thanks to time and location. There was more activity here than she had associated with the hospital back in Columbus. More people, more patients in need of assistance.

She was taken to an available bed as soon as she explained her condition. Finally being somewhere where care was in abundance was a strange relief. She had become so used to making due on her own that having people show concern for her in the slightest degree was unnerving at first.

It was a small, familiar taste of what she had remembered from her childhood doctor from so many years ago…

******-}0{-**

The morning her son was born, there had been a house fire not far from the hospital.

Outside her closed window, Esme watched the smoke billow around the innocent structure from a safe distance whilst receiving vague instruction as to how she should bring new life into the world.

The smoke was a bad omen. It was all she could think about, all she could see as she struggled to give birth to her child.

_That smoke, rising like a looming black spirit on the hill. The sirens and cries from outside and inside the hospital. The frightening unpredictability of everything in the world._

Hours went by where Esme knew nothing but pain and anguish. Even her hope was muted in the most joyous of times... because of that fire.

Man had failed to put out the fire, so God had intervened with a timely rain storm. Hearty droplets pelted against the windows, blurring her view of the catastrophe on the hill. She never saw how it ended. She only guessed that the fire had been put out.

Everything slowly began to calm, the rain seemingly washing away all that plagued this hectic room. The heat left her body and the forces died down, leaving her limbs slack from the effort. At last, a wailing cry sounded in the tiny room – a sound so striking and so strong, it pulled a wave of feral strength from her core.

Her eyes bolted open, once blurry, now crystal clear. She noticed her arms were reaching out for that cry, offering a home to the sound, longing to feel it against her. For she had known the one who cried more intimately than any being she had ever known before, even though she had yet to see his face.

He was exactly as she had imagined he would be.

His tiny face was the most exquisite thing she had ever seen. It seemed too beautiful to be real, too painfully perfect to belong to this earth. Her very first wish had been to run away with him, to flee from the prison of this world and find shelter in a cloud somewhere, far over the rainbow.

The face of her child was a loving beacon in the dark, a ray of hope in her dreary world. What she would offer this little piece of her soul! She would give him anything; she would wrap her weakened arms around the earth and straighten its axis _all for him _– this unnamed angel who slept soundly against her breast. She listened to his every faithful breath grow fainter, knowing this was out of her control. If only she could fit her arms around the earth...

_"He won't make it,"_ the nurses whispered in the hall.

But the new mother hadn't missed the dreaded sentence.

Watching the face of her infant son grow gray, Esme's heart was all but buried in these unquenchable desires, these lost and shattered dreams that would never see daylight no matter how many times the sun rose, in no matter how many states she watched it rise.

His final breath was softer than a snowflake landing on cotton. It left its cool impression not on her skin, but on the shell of her heart. All of the heat left her body as his face retreated into eternal slumber, forever an unnamed cherub to wander the clouds without his mother.

If her own child would leave her, then everyone would leave her. It was a fierce and unfair pattern, a never-ending circle of distrust and disloyalty and despair.

The one thing that would not leave her was Death.

And so Esme sought Death, and asked to be escorted from the terrors of Life.

Death was her only salvation.

It saw her on the edge of a cliff in the earliest hour of morning. Under the tainted moon, and beneath the weeping starlight. She stood with her back to the rest of the world, rejection nipping at her bare heels.

Esme had enjoyed the feel of bare feet more than anything else. Here and now, it felt just as wonderful. And no one could tell her to put her shoes back on. Not a soul would dare, if they knew what she was about to do.

Staring down at the fall before her was terrifying. What no one dared to whisper about suicide, Esme had to face on the night she had chosen to fulfill it. This terrible thrill of ending her own life was intoxicating, horrifying, and even repulsive. But how could she turn back when she had already arrived at the peak?

The choice was made long ago, and yet, here on the edge it began to flicker and falter in the back of her mind.

She tried to blanket her doubts in reassurances. If she were to turn back and face the world again, she knew that what was behind her was so much worse than what lay ahead.

Death could be an _end_. Empty, black, secure. Nothing more. Nothing...

It was so appealing. So much like a dark blessing.

Her breath caught in her throat as she leaned over the edge, just out of curiosity. The bottom of the cliff was black and jagged. Formations on the rock reached out all the way down the length of the slope, like witchy claws that would grab her as she tried to fall. They were waiting to disrupt the smoothness of her plans, to make her fall a miserable one.

What if she failed herself, now?

What if she fell, but death never took her?

These 'what if's' were so dangerous. She could not doubt herself any longer. It was too late.

The moon was watching and the stars were weeping and the wind was pushing her back, away from the crumbling edge. Everything was working against her will. But this time Esme would not let them win.

This time, she would be victorious.

Behind her closed eyes, she watched a dreamlike sequence of her son's sleeping face as he submitted to death.

_"Mama's coming, my darling," _she whispered to the unnamed cherub who had taken half of her soul. _"Mama's coming." _

With a final gasp into the silent night, Esme lifted her arms for the wind to carry her. Her bare feet left the world behind, and her eyes fell closed in a permanent slumber.

She was falling.

It was a motionless dance in midair, a suffocating numbness, a whirlpool without a center.

The fall was painless. The end never came. She fell forever, and it was exactly as she had dreamed it would be.

Empty, black, secure, and nothing. A dark blessing.

Her only salvation.

* * *

**A/N: Esme's story is rather dark and saddening, and though writing her suicide was unavoidable, I tried to keep it as succinct as I could while hopefully still conveying the hopelessness she might have felt at such a monumental time. If you have any insight on this chapter, I'd love to hear your thoughts.**

**More information on the missing time between Esme's broken leg and her marriage to Charles can be found in my other story, Blink to Break the Magic - Chapters 3, 5, and 6.**


	4. Left to Burn

**Chapter 4:**

**Left to Burn**

* * *

The fall was glorious. Truly _falling_ was incredible sensation. Esme wondered how many people were actually given the chance to experience the fall.

None would know it like she had.

The air carried her down, more slowly than she had expected. It was cold and whipping, but somehow soothing. It felt like the arms of an angry parent – chiding, yet comforting. Harsh, yet loving. The wind dropped and softened, letting her land in a jagged clump of rocks and water. It was here when she lost her consciousness.

She was supposed to be gone.

Everything was supposed to disappear. The darkness was meant to swallow her whole; the waves were meant to crash on her body, sloughing off her skin and crushing her bones into salt.

But there were no crashing waves, no sting of salt, and no song of silence. Something happened then, that made Esme's faith tumble freely out of her heart. She was a dying woman with one last hope, lifted into a hard, shuddering embrace of heavenly spirits.

Esme limped in and out of consciousness as time ran by like water, minutes melding into each other. Her head was spinning one moment, then numb the next. She thought she could hear voices, sparkling over her face. Some of them were urgent, but most of them were hushed. Most sounded holy. One sounded unspeakably divine.

She was locked into something dark and soft. Something scratched her face, then soothed the scratch. Something crept into her ear – a droplet of water, perhaps. But it felt glossier, hotter.

Maybe it was her own blood.

There was a strange sucking sensation inside of her chest, like her heart was slowly shriveling the longer she lay still. She could not move her arms or legs. She tried many times and failed in each attempt. Soon she lost the motivation to keep trying. But it was fine to let go, she thought. It was fine to give in to the pain and let it strum her nerves for however long it pleased. It would all be over soon...

Unattached hands handled her body, arranged her limbs to their liking and sent her to be tucked away somewhere in the wings to wait for her afterlife. It smelled mechanical and musty. Coppery and dull. Esme didn't like the scent at first, but after a long, long while it was replaced by something sweeter.

Her senses responded to the presence above her, though there seemed to be no dimension in her quiet little world of darkness. She had no compass rose to show her which way was up or down or west or east, but there was one tiny light in the center of her vision – a single luminous prickle that called to her without a word. And Lord, she trusted it.

Her trust, once acknowledged, blossomed into something crippling and wonderful. She _wanted _to be taken by that tiny light; she wanted to see what wonders it was capable of. She was not going to wait any longer. Her decision sprang forth suddenly, and the light replied with a spearing out of warm, blinding rays.

The light was reaching for her, so she reached back for it, stretching her fingers for the first touch of white warmth.

Without even a tease of its heat, the light snapped off. Darkness had never looked so dark.

Before she could mourn the loss of her precious light, Esme felt the limbs of her body again being jostled. It almost felt as though she were moving of her own accord, like she was swimming with only her mind to propel her through the air. Her skin was icy, and her face was stiff. She did not know where she was going. If she was being taken somewhere, she had no choice but to surrender to the arms that carried her.

The windy ride of darkness eventually came to a halt. Her body left the world for a moment or two, placed inside a claustrophobic cloud. She waited in a panic, then was calmed by the hushing sound of raindrops and breath. Those sounds were so close, so comforting, so romantic. So... home.

They drifted away sooner than she would have liked, but she was glad just to have heard them for those few lovely seconds before her ears dipped back into darkness.

She felt her body being lowered again, out of the cold, steady arms of her gripping carrier and into a soft kind of cradle. Her mind eased in and out of the world, picking out curious moments where something soothing and cool was spread across her feverish forehead. She recognized the sensations of warmth and care and even desperation... but no matter how sweet they were, none made the slightest bit of sense.

If she was not dead yet, then she was about to die.

Esme had never imagined death to be this way. Because what she was experiencing right now was not unpleasant. It was merely different. She could already feel herself detached from her body, looking through her own two eyes, but inside she felt hollow. Cobwebs of quiet gathered around her until her ears no longer heard. A dusting of dimness caked above her lashes until her eyes no longer saw clearly.

Her limbs were stiff; her body still. A silent blizzard stormed in her mind, shredding her thoughts to rust. Her vision was fuzzy, layered with a silvery haze as she watched tiny dust particles float whimsically through the untroubled air. There was no pain now, only a dull frustration of immobility and weakness of the senses.

She felt that she was waiting for something, but she had little idea as to what. Of one thing she was sure: she was not going to be in this body for much longer. Flesh was transient, but the soul was eternal.

Her gaze danced contentedly with the dust fairies in the last serene orange beams of sunset. And Esme decided, if this was death, it was not so bad at all.

Then, behind the sheer white curtain that protected her peace, a figure appeared – one of imposing height, and sure stature. The curtain rippled like a wall of white water, and her eyes relaxed their focus as the stranger's arm lifted to draw the delicate fabric aside.

Esme's heart jumped into a steady rhythm at his soundless entrance, suddenly startled by the sight of his familiar face.

His name instantly surfaced in the shallow pool of her memories. _Doctor Cullen._

Her entire body flushed.

If this was death, it was divine.

He had not aged a single minute in the decade that stood between them. The image before her eyes right in that moment belonged on the wall of a cathedral – an image that commanded its viewer to drop to their knees in worship. Her heart swelled with the truth she had known all along. _She knew that he had been an angel. _

He took a single step forward, the translucent film still clinging almost possessively to his tall form. His second step caused the last of the fabric to brush off his shoulder, and it wilted in miserable devastation as it broke contact with his body.

Esme battled with her tired eyes to keep the lids open, just enough for her to watch his achingly slow approach.

His third step brought him to stand just behind the rays of orange sunlight, his face now hidden in frustrating shadow. His movements stirred the air, and the dust in the light parted expectantly as though awaiting his intrusion.

Esme struggled to move, but her body did not obey her wishes. She rejoiced only that her eyes were not cruel enough to betray her; that they at least allowed her to drink in this glorious hallucination before death seized her.

The doctor paused, prolonging her frustration. Esme could not hear her heartbeat, but she could feel it.

And it was stronger than it should have been for a dying woman. Stronger than it should have been for a living woman.

She wondered for a fleeting moment if he had stopped her death – had his timely approach been a strike of revival, awakening her ruined heart before she had the chance to pass on?

The thought was not at all inconceivable.

Her eyes grew heavy with lassitude, and her heart slowed marginally as she supposed he would remain forever in the shelter of the shadow. She felt the very life inside of her close up, like a flower folding its petals. Her eyelids drooped wearily, just nearly giving up the hope that he would reveal himself to her. She watched his statue-like body begin to fade away in the darkness, almost able to feel his private conflict, though she knew not what plagued him so.

His chest expanded with a silent inhale and he lingered for a breathless moment in the safety of the shadow, before he took the last step into sunset's begging beam of light.

One hundred thousand butterflies burst to life inside her as her eyes were suddenly shocked back into crystal clear focus. Her heart tore into an erratic race with her pulse, and her hearing was instantly restored as though she had just emerged from drowning.

Esme recalled once wondering when she was just sixteen years old, what this doctor would have looked like in the sunlight. Her imagination hadn't even begun to do the image justice in the shameful infirmity of her mind.

His ivory skin shimmered with brilliant diamond dust, resplendent and immaculate. His eyes were all-knowing, searing with glittering golden wisdom, and his entire body glowed, scattering tiny rainbow reflections over the walls and floor. His impossibly youthful face was terrifyingly handsome, the epitome of true divinity. Esme's pulse beat faster with the knowledge that she was the only witness to this impromptu miracle. She wondered for a heart-stopping moment if this could have been God Himself.

If he was not her God, then surely he was one called upon by the Lord to bring her to heaven.

Esme had little doubt now that this divine being was endowed with this very task.

And how thrilled she was at the prospect of being whisked away by this creature. God had known that this had been her only dream throughout her splendidly torturous life. How wonderful the sense of elated relief she felt consume her entire body as a new force entered her, weakening her to the core – and she welcomed it with arms outstretched.

Death was ready to take her. She was ready for Death.

Already she anticipated the journey toward life eternal in the home of the Lord. Her angel would lift her in his arms and carry her through the tunnel of light, ascend a brilliant staircase to a place where there would be no more suffering and no more tears.

The tears in her eyes now made her weep ever more, for she was further blinded by his radiance.

Esme heard the telltale shifting of fabric as the doctor neared her, his slightest movement dazzling her eyes with a thousand pinpoints of the visible spectrum across the wall. His breathing was clear and deep in her ears, the sacred sound falling into synchronization with her pounding heart. Under his painfully compassionate gaze she felt relieved, yet horrified. So profoundly protected, yet consumed by an inexplicable humiliation bearing witness to this heavenly vision in all his gilded glory.

And she lost herself in his penetrating eyes – free falling in a warm, hollow place where graceful gravity was queen. His eyes merely swallowed her, pulling her inside and binding her with the gentle, tight harness of unconditional love that could only belong in the afterlife. In moments, Esme was reduced to a sleeping fetus in the warm womb of his gaze.

Like gleaming carnelian, his eyes reflected the low burning embers of kindled desire – something quite _human_ was flickering in an otherwise supernatural gaze. Mystified, Esme knew not what this desire meant. What was it that he wanted so passionately to do to her in this moment?

His lips parted, the gesture magnified by the unmistakable sound of breath filling his lungs. Something in his eyes, his stance, faltered for a moment, and Esme cried out to him silently, every part of her pleading him not to leave.

The firm angle of his jaw straightened with resolve as he strode the remaining short distance to her bedside. His poignantly familiar scent washed over and through her, cleansing and purifying her of all that was unneeded, unwanted. Like a breeze from the sea, it was – soft and light, yet powerful enough in its poignancy to ravish her soul of all evils. Her lungs reveled in the arousing aroma, and at last worked to their full capacity, soaking in the candied chill of oxygen.

She was not dying any longer.

She was floating, swept away into a filmy flow of nothing as he settled on the edge of the bed beside her. Her disbelieving eyes studied his face as it continued to sparkle dimly in the deepening orange glow. His silken blond hair gleamed, polished by the sun to assemble a halo about his head. His eyes were brighter than science would allow any mortal to possess, like amber stained glass lit by a back-burning candle. She was positively melting under the fire that flickered in his ethereal eyes. Hot, anxious adrenaline rushed to all areas of her curiously revitalized body.

A delving pressure churned within her chest, and her blood fell silent at his hallowed words.

"_The gift of eternal life is not mine to give... But God help me, I cannot stop myself from giving it to you, Esme_."

The luxuriant flow of his words demanded that her lungs cease for fear of missing one syllable that he uttered. The way he whispered her name made her heart clench and her eyes overflow with awestruck tears. Her memory had never truly lost the sound of his voice.

She watched his figure lean down through the watery lens of her hindered vision, as if in slow motion. Her eyes closed helplessly as she felt the feather-light touch of his fingers deftly unbuttoning the tight collar of her blouse with a thrilling urgency. The intimate acceleration of his cool breath on her exposed skin sent deep shivers through her rapidly weakening body.

The long-incubated gasp that fell from her lips echoed back to her from a confined distance.

He was so close...

Fairly certain she might be dreaming now, she felt his cold mouth tentatively touch the side of her throat in a strange, other-worldly kiss.

Esme's poor heart throbbed wildly against her breast as she lay limp under her doctor's protective shadow. Moist lips explored the sensitive flesh of her neck as his porcelain hand reached up to gently tilt her chin back, his mouth poised decidedly over her hyper pulse point. Sharp, slick teeth sunk into her flesh, and Esme failed to form a scream before her voice was stolen from her.

The doctor was _biting _her.

Even the thought was absurd.

Her mind was so utterly blank, whatever was happening at the moment had somehow passed as acceptable, though in reality, if it still existed, was anything but. It was so completely preposterous – obscene, even.

Moments ago, an angel had been kissing her. Now, a demon was biting her.

She felt the searing scarlet liquid that was her blood being drained from her body. The receiving mouth, no matter to whom it belonged, was consuming her life with every swallow. She willed her body to writhe in protest, but it took no such form. Instead she lay limp and yielding to his invasive ministrations.

_This_ was what she had been longing for, year after year, since she had met him?

_This_ was what she had wanted, every time she thought of him and found herself _wanting_ that unnamable something she knew only he could give? All along, it had been _this?_

A small fire ignited within her throat. For the moment she ignored it and tried very hard to cry. She thought her eyes were open, but she saw nothing but a barrier, black as pitch, in the way of everything. Esme shrieked in silent mortification. Where had her angel gone? Had she been purposefully taunted with the taste of heaven, only to be tossed into the fire of hell?

Flames engulfed her now, spreading from the place where he had corrupted her pulse to the rest of her body, rendering her lifeless to the pain. Her mind flashed with images of rippling white gossamer curtains, his fervent marigold eyes, his pale, gleaming face. She longed to hear his velveteen voice, to know that he was still present. She could not see, but somehow she believed he was within tangible proximity, bearing witness to her struggle, yet he did nothing to end her pain as he once had so dutifully done before.

She still wanted him. She still called for him in soundless desperation, aching to know that he was near. It did not even matter if he was indeed the one who had caused her this pain.

It was an unearthly pain. Not like falling from a tree, not like child labor, not like suicide. It was all of these and worse.

Through the crazed madness of her burning body and soul, Esme thought of her sins. She thought of those who had sinned against her; she thought of every possible sanction she would be delivered for every wrongdoing in her short life. But as the pain grew, there was nothing to think of but the fire. She could not even think of he who had brought this upon her.

Esme realized then, that she had never truly wished for death before. Not like she did now. She would have gladly taken back all of the abuse and the beatings and the misfortunate death of her son – if only it meant she could escape from this hellish torture.

She felt the brutal process with crude detail – her limbs, her organs, her senses – each separately scorched to black ashes. She saw horrifying images – blurry-faced spirits and vile orange dragons, their breath spitting cinders into her eyes and mouth as she gasped for air. Time was no longer a dimension. It was a faceless figment, a wordless demon that swallowed her into a bottomless vortex.

She was left to burn.

* * *

**A/N: To read the night of Esme's transformation from Carlisle's perspective, you can read "Chapter 2: Scarlet Salvation" in my companion story, Behind Stained Glass. **


	5. Invitation to Eternity

**Chapter 5:**

**Invitation to Eternity**

* * *

She could not name the precise moment it began. She could not even describe how it had first pulled her into its unforgiving grips. One day she was looking up into his calm golden eyes, and the next she was drowning in lava.

Pain so unbearable was impossible to describe. It was almost as if it was not even there. There came a time when her body was too numb to feel anything, but it lasted a tragically short while. She was unable to think of anything besides that pain, that numbness, that fire; whatever happened to be holding her between the seconds.

There were strange stages to travel through, stages that made Esme believe this really was the final journey, a staircase to hell. Each landing on that staircase brought her a new terror. A mad pink storm, flashes of rose-tinted lightning scarring her eyes. A deep green swamp, pulling her limbs in all directions, sticking to her skin and sucking her dry. A long orange tunnel, tight and suffocating, lined with flames that chased her and stung her as she tried crawling through.

It was like living in a horror story. From one page to the next, Esme stumbled onward desperately, needing and hoping to end the story as soon as possible. But the book was too long. She worried it would go on forever.

But every story with a beginning has an end.

What was a mindless eternity finally yielded taunting breaks in the chaos. This horrific world was bound to expire – she could hear the toll of eerie bells above her, she could see the sky darken and open up for another dimension. She lay helpless beneath the swelling sky, watching smoky clouds churn and boil from the hot, hard ground. The unbearable pain began crashing in waves, and the longer Esme waited, the more they lowered in their frequency.

There appeared before her a scarlet blossom, swelling and writhing like an anemone, pulling her in. It's frightening petals drew toward her, twisting in an eerie silence. Never did they reach her, never did they touch her. She was protected by some invisible barrier, watching the strange hallucination as though from behind a glass window.

She felt herself drifting, caught in the senseless niche between sleep and consciousness, prey to the mysterious apparitions in her head. She was allowed briefly to feel enhanced senses, but nothing more before the searing pain reclaimed her.

There was a stab to her heart – a final beat in her breast – a fierce flash of those same shamelessly vigilant golden eyes, hovering, waiting. And with those eyes watching her she felt so safe, so protected, so inconceivably whole that the pain she felt could no longer ruin her, limb by limb. By some miracle the pain drained away, seeping out of her body from her very flesh, leaving her behind. All but her eyes seemed cured from the fall. She was still staring into a hazy black pit of darkness.

"You can hear me..." A low voice sent gentle vibrations through her chest as she lay in frustrating stillness, awaiting the pain to slip away. The voice was a man's – soft, tender, uncertain. Esme longed to confirm the tentative inquiry, but her vocal chords were inaccessible. Her lips parted as though to respond, but no words made it through. An inaudible gasp rose and died in her throat as two warm fingers touched curiously to her lower lip.

_"Yes, I can hear you," _she longed to respond. _"I can feel your touch... I can feel your presence." _She wanted the man to hear_ her_ voice. A stranger he may have been, but there was something so humbly familiar in his faceless timbre. So terribly, she wanted to see him.

The curious fingers slipped away from her mouth, and a hand embraced her own, so much warmer than she had hoped it would be. Her breathing calmed gradually as the strange set of fingers tenderly stroked her knuckles with the pad of a single, careful thumb. Even from the simple gesture, Esme was filled with a strong reassurance that the owner of the hand would not leave her side for anything.

As she lay savoring the mysterious touch, her mind continued to float in and out of the fruitless daze in which it was locked. There were times when she could hear him speaking – the pitch of his voice, low and enchanting, stroking her heartstrings with undying tenderness. But the part of her mind which translated mere sounds into words had closed off entirely. Whatever he was saying had entered her ears as nothing more than lovely murmurs, a hypnotic ebb and flow of almost musical tones and reverberations.

Yet, Esme had so fiercely committed herself to this unknown being, that she found herself basking in the very deepest levels of contentment during a time which should have triggered, at the very least, a profound panic. It was all so nonsensical that she was somehow unable to chide herself for feeling such a way.

She hadn't the slightest idea what had happened, where she was, or who held her hand.

The moment she felt the stranger's fingers begin to slip from around her wrist, another weak whimper broke the barrier of her throat, and the hand quickly replaced its grip, not the least bit shy applying pressure. Esme settled again at the feel of their comforting connection, smiling inwardly in utter contentment.

"Shhh... I'm right here. I won't leave you for anything. I promise," the soft, familiar male voice soothed in hushed tones. Something inside of Esme tightened as his empty hand came to link fingers with her other. Now he held both her hands. Her breaths grew shorter as she let him arrange her limp fingers to fit between his securely, then he drew their folded hands together, right and left, to meet over her middle.

Esme could not tell how much time passed as she lay, uselessly absorbed with the fact that a nameless, faceless, but somehow trustworthy presence was holding her hands. And she was so disturbed at the thought of him ever letting go.

She did not know why or how, but there suddenly came a defining moment where something inside of her seemed to snap into place – the last piece of a puzzle, the final loop in a chain.

Esme writhed in her trapped body, like a bird yearning to escape its delicate eggshell. Her fingers itched, and her lips were almost unsealed. She could somewhat capably decipher feelings, words, sensations – and suddenly, she was alive once again. Esme hatched.

On the other side of that endless instant, she was no longer flesh and blood.

A blink of her eyes fetched her an astounding vision of the world around her – a spacious bedroom, filled with elaborate furnishings and dark shadows. Brilliant beams of dim oily light splashed back and forth as her head turned to catch every detail. The walls were lined with tall, floor-length windows, framed by gauzy blue curtains and topped by arches that mimicked the moon. Outside, malnourished limbs of trees spanked the glass in windy silhouettes, threatening to come inside.

Everything was different. Everything was new. The novelty of it all was startling.

This environment _looked _like her earth, but it could not have been. There was so much…_more _than she remembered there being before. The very neurons in Esme's brain were firing against her skull at the speed of light, making her eyes see so much more than she wanted to see. Nothing inside of her body was alive, there was no _movement. _It was so disconcerting that she looked down to see what had happened and found her arms to be composed entirely of rock-hard marble. Her fingers felt like they were encased in glass, and her hair felt like heavy silk around her head.

And the most notable change of all – there were razors in her throat.

She swallowed some sickly sweet substance that secreted from beneath her tongue, but all it did was torch the burn. She had been given kerosene in place of saliva.

As she struggled to ignore the magma that coated her throat, Esme's eyes could only brace their focus on the faces of the strangers at her bedside.

They were bright inside her gaze – bold and commanding in their presence – and both disturbingly beautiful. They tried to speak to her, but she could not listen to their words. Their angelic, velvet voices were nothing more than a soothing vapor in her ears, which she took in greedily. Yet she still felt uncomfortably trapped, the plaster of psychotic paranoia pasted around her mind.

She would have been overwhelmed from the senses alone, but that constant nagging on her throat made her wild. Every breath was a soiled swallow, a distraction. Esme tried to apologize, tried to beg for help, tried to express the unbearable illness of her throat, but the scents around her were so powerful that they had completely obliterated her vocal chords. She was nothing more than a deafened demon.

It took only that single smell to send her entire body into a seizure.

Somehow she had risen from her bed, suspended almost in mid-air. The power and sheer suddenness of the motion shocked her. Her limbs were taken hostage by four unyielding hands, and Esme did all she could to resist them.

The heavenly voices still made her eardrums tremble. They tried to calm her, but the sounds they made, while lovely, were useless to defeat the craze that had so suddenly possessed her.

_That scent..._

Was that even what it was? It was far too cloying, far too thick to be composed of empty particles. It was an _entity_.

She had never tasted anything like that scent before. It was beyond imagination, beyond sensual barriers. If she had taken heaven between her hands and squeezed it dry, this was the very aroma that would seep from the ruins. Somewhere beyond her reach, she could sense that there was an ocean of that flavor awaiting her. If only she could break these angels' vicious hold.

Esme struggled and shrieked and pleaded with her captors to let her sate her thirst. She tore apart the bedding that had kept her warm through her death and made splinters of whatever came into contact with her weapon-like fingers. In the midst of her tantrum, one of the angels left her side. Perhaps she had frightened him so strongly as to drive him away.

She wanted to beg him to return, but she could not do anything except plead for a cure to her agony. Her voice was weakened by the burn in her throat, her words distorted by the dryness of her mouth. Eventually, there was no sound left to make, no words left to say. Only whimpers and feral nonsense leaked from her lips as she struggled for something she could not even put a name to.

A long while passed where she was held closely by the lone angel behind her. She could not see his face, but his voice gave her vague ideas about what his face might have looked like. He spoke softly, but desperately. His voice was swift and familiar, very close to her ear. His words made no sense but she could feel the will in his timbre – the hope that she could somehow understand him. His grip had intensified in the absence of his counterpart, a single sturdy arm hooked about her waist and his hands fastened wherever she would allow them.

She knew this touch. The man whose hands held her now was the same man who had held to her in death. Something in the subtle but firm pressure of his hands ignited a fierce care and determination, as if he would rather be damned himself than let her go.

All the while her teeth were gnashing like some feral beast, and she was sure that if she could see herself, she would be foaming at the mouth. Her attempted words were choked by the disgustingly sweet film seeping down her throat. She flailed her hands about like a restless child, trying to latch onto air. But he would not let her go.

His voice was the only thing that kept her tied to the earth. His voice and his familiar touch – his strong hands that by their grips told her _"you are not going anywhere." _And she did not go anywhere. She stayed right here, in his arms, crying in his captive embrace.

At last, the angel who had departed came rushing back to them. In a quick but practiced gesture, he took her head into his hand, and suddenly her mouth was filled with heaven-sent silk.

There was a delicious lull where Esme felt nothing but the absence of fire in her throat. Twice her pleas were answered, yet still she begged for more of the exquisite medicine.

In a matter of seconds she was on her knees before the murmuring angels, sobbing pathetic apologies for her behavior.

Was this what a failed suicide did to those poor souls who passed onto the afterlife? Were these men the guards to the pearly gates, assigned to forbid her entry until she fulfilled her penance?

"Is this Purgatory?" she asked, the luscious voice of an utter stranger seeping from her lips.

"No," the dark-haired one said.

Flustered and confused, Esme's overactive gaze snapped to the other.

For a flash of a moment, the thirst disappeared.

As the stinging in her throat was held on a simmer, Esme could fully recognize the face of her childhood doctor again. He was there, just as she had remembered him, just as he had promised from the plank of her deathbed, only perhaps more beautiful, more impossible than before. He was the same, of course – all but flaming with the heat of his care, of his irresponsible kindness. She could not take her eyes away from him. He was a tall, golden feast for her tortured soul.

He said nothing to acknowledge the weight of her stare. He was unmoving and terrified, but also filled with awe. He stared intensely back into her eyes as if he expected she had something of monumental importance to say.

"Doctor Cullen," she murmured. This name, in the silence of the room, _was_ monumental.

A current passed between them as their eyes locked – a blaze of hot, overbearing intimacy. It was undeniable, all but decapitating in its intensity.

His eyes were at once sharpened by tragedy, his face entirely unreadable. "You remember me..." he marveled softly, his gentle words cooling the stab of fire between them.

How was it he seemed to know her so well? How could _he _have recognized _her _after all these years? Surely she had to have had an encounter with him since her attempted death, but Esme could recall no such reunion. She had little memories at all of anything that had happened to her since the fall, not even what had driven her to do it. She could not remember. It made her panic.

"Please, Doctor..." Her hair touched his shoes as she bent before him in a pathetic heap, floating amidst the tattered fragments of her bloody nightdress. "I beg of you! Tell me how I have lost myself!" Her hands clutched his legs in desperation. _"Have I gone mad?"_

His face was incredibly pained at her distress, and for some reason, Esme could not help but relish his sympathy for her.

"No, you are not mad." His voice was too calm, too soft.

She denied him quickly. "But I must be!"

"You are not. I assure you, Miss." His voice was firmer this time. He held her shoulders and looked down at her, again with great pity.

"What have I done?" she pleaded weakly.

"It is not what you have done, but rather what _I _have done."

Then, like lightning, Esme remembered. The hallucination. The strange, violent kiss.

She saw it in his eyes then. There was no way to deny it anymore. He was not human.

But if not an angel, then what was he?

"What _are_ you?" she whispered in horror beneath her breath, falling out of his grasp.

The suspicious looking young man on the other end of the room cautiously came out of his corner and approached the doctor's side. The two men exchanged a meaningful glance that deeply unsettled her.

The doctor stepped forward, and Esme stumbled backward against the edge of the bed, afraid to be touched.

His beautiful eyes were haunted, hurt.

"Esme."

Her name never felt so warm.

"Please..." she begged, shaking like a frightened child on the floor. "What is happening to me?"

The younger man took a tentative step forward as well, his stance cautious, as if he feared the approach more than she should.

Esme was not afraid as the doctor reached down to place a gentle hand on her shoulder. She could feel the calm radiating from his palm into her flesh, and it chased her fear away.

A blunt _"We are vampires" _might have sent her running, but they had worked her up to it, slowly and carefully – in a way that ensured she had no choice but to accept it as the truth.

The doctor's face was disconcertingly calm as he held her shoulders and spoke to her with a steady voice. She strained to listen, but her senses were almost too wild to tame. Words like "immortal," "blood," "animals," and "restraint" were all she picked out of the silken heap of his speech. He spoke a fragmented curse, whispering it like a lullaby in his musical voice, hushing her with horrors.

"You can never die, and you can never forget..."

She shook her head at all that he said, unwilling to process the things he was telling her, but somehow believing them all the same.

"I have made you one of us," Doctor Cullen whispered at last, his tone hard and slightly regretful. But his face was like a statue's – stiff, almost strict.

What should have been a shocking revelation was not so shocking at all. Not after everything Esme had seen on her violent journey into this terrible other-world. She was given an answer, and that was all she had needed.

Her eyes could not cry and her skin could not crawl. All she could do was wilt into the carpet and stare at nothing for the rest of the night.

Perhaps she should have been thankful that she had not been damned to hell. She was given a second chance of _some kind. _But it was not an easy one.

******-}0{-**

The first days were the worst – every other minute saw her with a strong pair of ceramic hands clutching her arms, restraining her; their vague voices attempting to calm her as her nostrils simmered with a thousand fires. It was with insurmountable difficulty that she was tamed by the doctor and his son. She could not spend a single second without their supervision.

Playing the part of an animal was perhaps the most degrading role Esme could have ever imagined. It wasn't every day a woman was treated like a violent beast. To her captors' credit, she did believe that what they were doing was entirely for her own good, and perhaps the good of the population as well. In the back of her mind, she remembered that she was the dangerous one – she was the threat. Yet she still fought against them, against all reason.

It was terrible being the "feared one." These men should have been brave. They _looked _brave. They looked like gorgeous soldiers, like saviors on a crusade to conquer evil that mere mortals could only imagine. She was their secret monster, the fabled mad woman whom it was their duty to keep chained up away from society lest they be ostracized.

It was all like something out of a gruesome fairy story. Esme Anne Platt, the bloodthirsty harlot, trapped by two angels who existed under the guise of honorable men, living in an abanoned mansion in the middle of the woods. She was the main attraction, and the very disruption of their unreliable lives. Here, she played the part of an imprisoned damsel, dressed appropriately in her blood-stained nightgown. Because she had no other clothing to don, her back was covered by oversized tunics that distressed her with their heavy scent of masculine threat. They were only trying to help her contain her decency, but she shredded every forced piece of fabric, doomed to be ungrateful for everything they offered her.

In her chaotic struggle, she heard their quarreling voices on either side. Every _"Hold her back!", _and _"Keep her down!"_ was tantamount to a slap in the face. Every roar of pain as she thrashed her hands against an unseen face was a blade in her heart. She hadn't meant to hurt anyone, yet she couldn't control herself.

The balance of their grips counter-acted each other, struggling for dominance over her. One pair of arms was slightly stronger than the other, which were more tentative, more frightened. She didn't know whose arms were whose. But she knew their voices. She knew the creator of one word without a flinch.

"Esme, please listen to me!" Doctor Cullen begged. "Please hear what I'm saying!"

_What had he been saying? What was he trying to tell her? _

Feral gargles released from her burning throat, not a word of discernable English from her tongue.

"Please, Esme, you must keep still!"

Her muscles wavered at the strain of his sweet voice, longing to obey the doctor's every order, but filled with unprecedented hatred for him all the same.

Of course, she never kept still.

It was a bitter challenge from that point on.

If she came too close to the doctor, the copper-haired youth would snarl at her in defense. Esme learned quickly just how contagious the animalistic gesture was. He was reading her mind, the sly young man. When the doctor told her this, Esme had thrown her longest tantrum yet.

That day, she hated Edward.

Esme only knew the name of the boy by how many times the doctor addressed him. "_Edward, Edward_." Every other minute, "_Edward_." Sometimes he yelled it, other times he hissed it. Most often of all, though, he whispered it, his voice like the a chime of a churchbell – a gentle warning.

She never called the boy by his name, just as he had never called her by hers.

To say they did not get along well together was an understatement. Many times Esme would want to apologize, but there had been a significant swell in her inner-ego that made it nearly impossible to remain civilized for more than a few minutes at a time. All of her motives were selfish. Everything was about _her _wants, _her _needs.

If only they could have known that she was truly just the opposite. Or at least she _used to be_ that way.

How could she make them see this? How could she prove her innocence, reveal the woman who was crying for help beneath this animal? It would take a greater threat, a more scandalous action to make them realize the extent of her innermost suffering. As much as she hated to bring it upon herself, she had to do it for her own good.

_Help me!_, she screamed in the silence.

The lust was louder.

The frustration rose like boils on her flesh, until they were searing and she was seething. She could not bear it any longer.

To the edge of a cliff, she wished to fly, free and unbound. Her chains would wither away behind her like a discarded gown of metallic lace. Knowing it was a vain motive from its conception, she tried to relive her final leap from the top of the staircase.

He held her back.

Her struggle was vicious and embarrassing, but she did not care. He was unmoving behind her – always, like a stone-clad saint. Never did he release her, even when she threatened his life.

He had no life to threaten. And now, neither did she.

She could feel him behind her. Everything about him was so prominent, so textured. Her senses were so astounding that she could almost _feel _his every feature – his blondness, his pallor, his statuesque physique. His hands were hard on her ribs, embracing her like a parent who was desperate to keep his child from leaping into an abyss.

"You do not wish to do this, Esme," he spoke in her ear. "You must listen to me! It will not always be this way."

She callously brushed him away, though she wished to have him closer. It was all she could do not to bite him herself.

"Esme!" he chided when she tried for the railing again. Her weight hit the banister and dust rained down on their feet. She could break everything but herself.

He claimed to have faith in her, promised to protect her, told her that it would soon be behind her, but in herself she had so little faith.

"Let me jump! Please, I beg you! Let me jump!" She screamed it, she gasped it, she whimpered it. Anything she could do to force him to hear her. But his ears were closed to her cries.

"You do not want to jump, Esme."

How could this man know what she wanted?

"Stay here. Stay still," he said, his tone low and drugging, like a hypnotist. He _wanted _her to stay. He wanted her to be still, to be close. Even in her all-consuming craze, this was an appealing offer. "Stay with me," he whispered again. "_Stay._"

By the tenth time he had murmured it, the word was irresistible.

She calmed for a moment or two, and in that moment, the doctor was breathing with her. They breathed together, for just that moment, and it was soft and sleepy and exquisite.

"I wanted to jump. I wanted to leave this place," she sobbed, her head forced against his chest as he held her. She could _feel _the way he was listening so closely to her every word, and it astounded her into submission.

"I have given you a second chance, Esme," he said, so soft and true. Her body felt at ease against his for a tragic instant in time, but then she fought for freedom from his arms.

A soft, helpless hiss slipped from her throat. "But it is my choice how to use it."

Try as he might with his gentle words and foolish hope, he could not fight with her will. Though she could not see his face, Esme _felt _his eyes grow despondant.

Every day she tried to jump. Every day, she returned to take her preparatory place at the top of those stairs. She looked down the length of them, marveling at how high up she was, entertaining every exquisite estimation of the damage she would inflict upon herself by falling so far. The steps were made of dark, sturdy wood. The banisters were thick, yet elegant, winding like wide vines down into the hell that was the elaborate foyer. The tiles gleamed invitingly under the light of the cold chandelier. This was the perfect place to jump.

Even after a while, when she knew it could do nothing more than sting, she still did it. Because she knew he would come up behind her, with both his arms held wide, and pull her back.

She loved and hated when he pulled her back.

He whispered frantically in her ear – prayers and half-formed thoughts, and sometimes just the word _"please."_ It sounded so lonely when he said it, almost pitiful. As if he had been saying it all his life and never truly received an answer to it.

But Lord, this doctor was giving her the precious pieces to a puzzle. Esme recalled every whispered word he had ever repeated and placed them together to form one sad, stifling sentence.

_"Please stay."_

_"Stay, please."_

Her eyes blinked over tears of slick venom, despising herself for her ongoing curse of ignorance. Under the most horrific circumstances, they had gotten to know each other – somehow, in this intricate battlefield of empty corridors and tall staircases they had rediscovered each other and bonded over the terrors of some supernatural impossibility.

She was a vampire, and she wanted to die. He was a vampire, and he wanted her to live.

He wanted her to stay with him.

As much as she ached to give him that, the forgotten promise of death sounded so much more appealing.

It was as if she were holding out for dear life onto the edge of a cliff, and the rock was crumbling slowly beneath her weak fingers. She had already taken the dive off of that very cliff, yet somehow she knew that this time, she could not take the easy way out. The unfairness of it all made her wish for death even stronger.

They told her it would fade completely, come the end of the year. There had been a time in Esme's life when a year seemed so long, but now it was a tiny little nothing in the colossal frame of eternity. Until now, the word had never really meant anything. It stood for a concept she would rarely think about, because it was of the kind that made her head spin and her faith dwindle with doubt.

_Eternity._

She would live forever. With them. With Edward and Doctor Cullen. With Doctor Cullen.

She was lightheaded by the thought.

How on earth was she meant to manage that? Living with these men until the end of time...

She could not do it.

She was loathe to discover the horrors of this unnatural life they had planned for her. She was terrified by every shadow, but a threat to every monster. She was far too intimidated by _him_. By his ancientness, by his terrifying wisdom, by the hazy familiarity about him that still startled her with every glance at his alluring features – the untouchable Doctor Cullen who had resurrected from the ashes of her childhood memories. And then there was his mysterious "son," who was so incredibly daunting with his vigilant ear to her thoughts at every given moment. _Edward. _The lurking, invasive young man whose every word was drenched in disdain when he spoke against her.

She was afraid to stay with them, but what lay beyond their home gave her far more reason to be afraid. Something uncanny was telling her that Doctor Cullen and Edward were as forgiving as any vampires she could ever hope to find in this world. It was awful that this must serve as her only reason to stay. But she was afraid of the things she might do without their guidance. She was horrified at the prospect that, after being set loose, she would morph into the very monster she feared most.

There were so many things Esme had learned to fear in her life. But now, for the first time ever, Esme was afraid of herself.

* * *

**A/N: I imagined it would be very hard for Esme at first to accept not only being a vampire but being immortal. I imagined if I were to be turned into a vampire myself, the idea of having to live forever would scare me probably more than the aspect of drinking blood... So what are your thoughts on this chapter? Is Esme's reaction / trauma realistic?**


	6. Tie Me to the Mast

**Chapter 6:**

**Tie Me to the Mast**

* * *

There was nothing to look at in this cellar.

It was a dark and icy suite, a cold chamber made to contain her monstrous cries as he held her prisoner, cooing like a neglected dove into her ear. He gave her no freedom, but he claimed to preserve her conscience, which he insisted was far more important.

As he held her, he was both the savior and the enemy. Still clad in her fibery white nightgown and an unfamiliar tunic of dark plaid cotton, she looked like nothing more than a psychologically ill and destitute woman, fighting for her sanity against all that stood against her. This torment was supposed to end, but she was still trapped in this inescapable nightmare.

She was frustrated by the unyielding strength of her doctor's grip, but even as she tried with all her might to break free from him, a tiny part of her always refused to resist him. That part of her was grateful for this trap, this prison of his arms.

She believed she could do it, if she really wanted to. Break away. Break him. But some tucked away part in her heart admonished her for even the thought of hurting him to please herself. There must have been some reason he cared enough to keep her here. He did not want her to be a murderer.

She writhed like a wildcat in her invisible cage, her eyes blinded by some obtrusive shade of violet, blocking out not only her sight but her consciousness as well. Everything in the room whirled in a vicious circle around the burn in her throat.

All gravity pulled on it, all magnets wedre attracted to it, all arrows pointed to it. The thirst was all that existed.

Her hands clutched at her own throat, as though threatening to strangle herself, and the doctor pulled her hand away with a gentle sigh of outrage.

"Why is it hurting so badly?" She was hardly coherent in her state, all whines and broken snarls, but he miraculously understood her every word.

"There are humans close by. They will soon leave." It always seemed to be the same answer, uttered like dry velvet against her neck.

"It never makes a difference!" she denied venomously.

"It will." His voice was too calm.

"No! Never!" She could not stand it when he made such bold presumptions… and in such a sweet voice.

"Please…" He tried to quiet her. She hated those desperate pleas.

"I need it!" She screamed, throwing her arms out, reaching for the potent aroma as if she expected it to come running to her - a mysterious ghost of red satin that sought refuge inside her throat.

His arms strangled her waist and cemented her to his chest, struggling to keep her from the stairs she sought to ascend. That flitting sensation of contentedness flirted with her mind for an instant, but the greater part of her trampled it in disgust. She pushed back against him, scratched at his ivory flesh with her fingernails, and watched the deep purple slits seal themselves with frustrating consistency.

She could see that she was hurting him, but she could not stop herself. There was something delicious about disturbing him so deeply. It satisfied her to hear his gasps of pain, knowing she was the more powerful one. There was a new, purely sadistic side of her that only wanted to use this power to her advantage, and she came dangerously close to doing just that.

"Please stop..." His broken voice floated weakly through her cries, like the chime on a clock that was reaching the end of its life.

Her hands clawed at his arms again, tearing the sleeves with her nails until they were withered gray shreds around his elbows, like tattered wings.

"Let me have it!" she sobbed uncontrollably, choking on the sweet syrup of venom in her mouth. But he never let her. He refused her every time, each time more gentle than the last.

The enticing fragrance of the blood tapered ever so slowly as she wrestled to free herself. Her shrieks likewise settled as the scent fluttered away, leaving her to lay against him, whimpering with the last insincere strains to break his hold.

A different, less potent aroma curled around her; though it was not the blood of her foremost desires, it offered mild ease to her insatiable thirst.

She saw the familiar, lanky silhouette in the light of the cellar stairwell, and her mouth flooded with venom in anticipation for the relief she had been conditioned to expect soon after.

Fast enough, he always was. The boy. So quick on his feet. She loved him for it.

In a flash he had dropped the limp doe from his shoulders to the stone floor before her. The doctor's arms retreated just as quickly as she lunged upon the half-dead animal.

Her throat sung a satisfied symphony of cat-like purrs as the blood filled her, and everything around her was a haze of luxury and low murmurs.

"We can't keep on like this for much longer," Edward said in a low, furtive voice.

"I know," the doctor responded gravely.

"Perhaps we could let her try—"

"You know we cannot," the doctor hastily reminded him. "Not yet, Edward."

A pause followed as the newborn vampire on the floor carelessly slurped the remains of the blood from the sunken hide.

Edward's judgmental whisper marked the quick dissipation of her temporary euphoria.

"Look at her."

"Don't—"

Esme snarled in defense as Edward came closer, hoping to make him very aware that this was her territory. But the boy did not growl back at her as he usually did. There was instead something like genuine concern in his wildly handsome face as he slowly backed away from the puddle of blood she left on the floor.

Her muscles relaxed warily as her senses read no threats from either man. They simply stared down at her where she was crouched like an animal above the kill. Their eyes were filled with equal parts pity and distress.

Esme felt the instantaneous urge to cry uncontrollably.

Usually this was what happened after she fed. The satisfaction only lasted for a minute at the most. The thirst was nearly gone, but she was somehow ten times more miserable than before, knowing it was only a short-lived fix for her sanity.

Her eyes took one last look at the mutilated mother deer, and the sobs began. Dry, dissatisfying sobs that made her sorely miss the salty silk of teardrops streaming down her cheek.

"Leave us," the doctor said quietly, and Edward obeyed.

Esme buried her face in her hands and succumbed to the shame. Doctor Cullen's every move was clear to her, even without sight. She heard him, sensed him. He knelt on one knee, very low to match her level. His hand reached out for her shoulder, but he withdrew before he could touch her...and his obvious fear of contact may as well have been him spitting upon her heart.

"What you are doing is immensely difficult, but you must understand that it is the right thing."

The familiar lecture was elementary, almost patronizing to her, but though she would never dare admit it, she felt the need to hear it every time. It was her only inspiration to be strong.

"Why must it be so impossible?"

"I will admit that it often feels that way, but it is not impossible. You must believe that."

She did believe it. Only because she saw it in him - in the boy. That taunting taste of perfection that she would never possess.

"Are you certain that you are not a different breed of vampire, Doctor?" she asked, on the verge of being distastefully sarcastic, but he did not take notice to her ill tone.

She almost expected him to laugh, but his response was utterly humorless. "I am every bit as tainted as you, and you are every bit as capable as I."

She sighed dismally. "I wish it all to end." Her hand moved subconsciously closer to his knee on the ground, and her voice dropped as if she had a hope of maintaining a secret. "Patience be damned."

"Then your success be damned as well, for without patience it is impossible."

He sounded so sure, so annoyingly wise when he spoke that it nearly infuriated her. And yet she could not hear enough of him.

"What if I am not capable of this way of life?" Her voice remained low, shameful.

She could not look at him, but her ears found uncertainty in the way his eyelashes fell as he blinked, and in the slight strain of his breath before he spoke.

"If it helps any, I believe you are." Just the sound of him saying this made her heart glow with hope. "Edward says you still have a strong devotion to your morality. I do not think you would give up on your only option for a moral life so easily."

"What if morals have no meaning in this life?" she challenged thoughtfully.

"Oh, but they do." His voice was soft and sure.

She shook her head idly from behind the dark curtain of her hair. "How can you know that?"

"I cannot know it, but I can believe it." The conviction in his tone was indestructible, and suddenly she felt terribly incomplete in not meeting his eyes. "I would not want to live in a world without morals, would you?"

She looked up to find the tiny suggestions of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. She shook her head in agreement, but his smile never developed completely before he continued in a hushed voice.

"If you choose the scarlet path, you are choosing the immoral way. If your only wish is to glean some kind of credit for living morally, then perhaps you would find my lifestyle merely convenient. I, however, find it to be the only possible way to live."

A fresh flare of flames lit her esophagus at the mere thought of fighting off the thirst forever in favor of a mediocre substitute. "Doesn't it drive you mad?"

His precise row of small white teeth gently pushed into his bottom lip in thought.

"Perhaps it would, but I have not known any other way. I imagine the guilt in killing a human should be far more disturbing than the thirst in abstaining."

He said it as if it was the simplest assumption one could make, but there was hardly precedent for her to agree with him when she had never tested the options for herself.

"Do you truly believe it's possible for someone like me to abstain forever?"

"If your desire to remain a good woman outweighs your desire to take innocent blood, I don't see why not."

His answer, while kind, was somehow not satisfying enough. She wanted to hear an exact estimate of time, down to the very second, telling her when she will be rid of her suffering. She wanted him to hush her fiercely when she doubted him and assure her that she will be flawless in the art of control one day.

She refused to go on if the time and effort and vain patience all led to nothing. Her progress so far had been charted on an invisible line, and she was blind to whether the slope was positive or negative.

It was still so tempting to give in to her basest desires. She could see the wrongness in killing humans, but the very concept of morality seemed trivial while she was consumed by thirst. It was only in these rare, sane moments after her thirst had been sated that she could make sound realizations and decisions.

It would only last so long before she fell again. And again. And again.

Even now she could see that it was only a matter of time before she gave into the thirst and killed a human for her own glory.

"It seems so hopeless," she sobbed lightly as she curled her arms around her body and bowed her head.

The doctor shifted beside her, but still did not touch her. "It was that way for Edward as well. It is for all of us."

"I don't know if I can go on like this," she admitted ruefully, hiding her face from him to spare herself the humiliation.

There was a lengthy pause where she feared he had given up on her. But his voice returnd even when she had lost hope, and his words surprised her.

"I must ask your forgiveness... If I seemed forceful it was only because I wished to spare you the guilt of having killed an innocent. You are still so vulnerable; I suppose I feel that you are, to some degree, my responsibility."

His responsibility. His creation. That was what she was.

Awkwardly, she lifted her head to stare at his shoe, feeling oddly obligated to look at some part of him out of respect. It was the least she could bring herself to do.

"I'm sorry."

"You owe me no apologies," he gently assured. "If you choose a different path than mine, that is your decision and your decision alone. I am afraid all I can do is hope that you will find the patience to remain here... Let me help you overcome the thirst, and I promise you, you will see better days."

How he could make such lofty promises was beyond her. But it thrilled her heart to think that perhaps, he could not only make them, but keep them as well. The only way to find out was for her to take up his offer.

It seemed she had exhausted her efforts already. The light at the other end of the tunnel was dim, but it was not lost. She could take the easy way out and quench that thirst right this instant, in exchange for a life of loneliness and guilt... But which would be worse?

"I want to try," she began, tentatively. "I want...to be like you."

He moved closer to her, his breathing rushed with renewed hope. "You can be. With proper faith, you will be."

She found the courage and looked desperately into his eyes. The warmth they exuded tenderly frightened away the dank dreariness of the cellar around her, and soon those eyes were all she could see.

"My faith is scarce, Doctor." Bravely, she whispered her fear. And bravely, she held his gaze as he responded.

"But mine is not."

* * *

_**A/N:** Some may recognize the chapter title as a line from The Odyssey. The theme here being, of course, Esme's fear in losing all restraint when confronted with the scent of blood. She is reluctant to believe that it will ever be possible to attain the level of control she sees in Doctor Cullen, but he is willing to guide her through the hardest time of her early newborn phase._


	7. The Restless Newborn

**Chapter 7:**

**The Restless Newborn**

* * *

The days of the week blurred into one another. Every Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday... each sounded like a separate curse, a heavy new obstacle in the way of her sunlit path. Repeatedly, Esme sank into darkness, then rose up again on a high. In and out, over and under, push and pull – it was madness, and she was nothing more than a desperate slave to the power of the blood.

Sometimes when she felt it creeping up on her, she had to act fast and battle the lust before it hit her full force. She was getting just a little stronger every day, but the way she used this strength was bleak. She bolted downstairs into the cellar whenever she caught the slightest tint of that scent on the air. This deep, dark dungeon was her least favorite room in the house, yet it was her sad sanctuary. She could sit in the corner and stare at the disturbing engravings of strange old runes in the stone walls for hours, rocking on her ankles as she muttered like an ill psychiatric patient. There was only so much she could do to tame herself when she smelled blood. Her only option was to seclude herself from the rest of the world. She was safe here, and so she punished herself daily when it was needed. Esme wondered how one scent could take an innocent, sane woman and turn her into a monster overnight.

At the end of the day, it was her duty to protect herself. It was the doctor's duty to follow her when she took the stairs into hell.

"Esme?" his voice would echo in the stony stairwell, so heavenly and out of place in her dreadful trap.

She could not respond to his call with anything more than a sob. His steps came closer until he was directly behind her, the strength of his presence comforting as he hovered. Her obsessive little rocking motions calmed as she listened to his breathing, and she eventually settled into stillness, her eyes locked on the engraved symbols in the stones in front of her.

He touched her shoulder carefully with just a few fingers. She wished he was not so afraid to touch her.

"I don't want to hide anymore," she whispered desperately.

"Soon, Esme," his promise repeated, surer every time he said it. "Soon."

"The pain is unbearable," she murmured into her hands. She felt him lower himself on the ground behind her – and she knew he would be on one knee, with his wrist resting on the other, and his head tilted to one side.

She wanted to turn her face and look at him, but his beauty would only discourage her.

"We all share this curse," the doctor reminded her. "You are not alone in your struggle."

Her heart longed to believe him, but her mind was in denial. _He_ was not writhing in agony every time he smelled the blood. _Edward_ was not screaming for the burn in his throat.

Esme had never been generous with her patience, and this was the greatest test of all. As with all tests, those who try either fail or succeed.

"Doctor—" She choked on his name, unwilling to speak for fear that the ache in her throat would overwhelm her yet again.

His hand grasped her shoulder firmly at last, not afraid to share his touch with a lowly newborn like her. She did not feel fear in his touch now. She felt support and sensitivity. It was the strangest thing how everything he did could simply be _felt_. Esme never needed to look, never needed to see him with her wandering eyes to know what he was doing or how he looked. She had been blessed with some new, mysterious sense – a sense specifically designed to tell her everything about the doctor at any given moment. It was a comforting distraction from her agony.

"You're fine. There is no need to struggle," he spoke gently from behind her. Each time he spoke, his voice sounded closer.

The dull dripping sound of a leak in the cellar ceiling echoed on the stone. In contrast, the soft tide of his every breath stirred the air, creating a monotonous but beautiful sort of song. The tempo of Doctor Cullen's breath held within it something purely artistic. Esme found solace in the rhythm, and by natural instinct, her own lungs sought to match his. In moments, they were breathing together – one breath for the other, balanced. Her worries stilled from their mad, whirling circle, leaving her mind clear at last.

He stayed with her through the rest of the evening. Knowing she would decline any invitations to spend such an eve upstairs in an elaborately furnished drawing room, the doctor kindly remained in the dark, cold cellar without a word of complaint.

All the while, Esme's heart panged unceasingly as his breath faithfully caressed her shoulder into the night. It baffled her that he was still there, still touching her, still breathing, still watching over her when he could have been anywhere else doing infinitely more pleasant things. He chose instead to be here. In a cold, damp, dim cellar with a broken woman who felt nothing but thirst.

No, she felt more than thirst now. Much more. But he did not know that.

He did not know that this simple touch of his hand on her shoulder was filling her, hour by hour, with the strength she needed to pass this impossible test. It may have seemed preposterous that this touch had been all she'd needed since the beginning, but the proof was right here, as the burn in her throat gently trickled down into her heart.

When the night at last slowly crept upon its end, Esme decided, in a whisper of a breath, "_I will succeed_."

The doctor said nothing to acknowledge this whispered promise, but she knew he had heard her.

She just felt it.

******-}0{-**

There were times when she supposed he would give up on her. But he never did.

Doctor Cullen was unforgivably forgiving.

After so long watching over every step Esme took, he finally deemed her ready to be left alone for more than a few minutes at a time, and eventually a few hours. Reluctantly, he resumed his work in shorter shifts at the hospital in town, leaving Edward to take care of Esme in his absence.

While Edward's patience was nowhere near as immaculate as the doctor's, Esme was grateful that he at least tried. At the very least, he could read her mind, so she never had to worry when her thirst became a problem.

Doctor Cullen never stayed away for more than several hours at most, but one Sunday morning he had been gone all afternoon and well into the evening. As the sun lowered in the sky, Edward had started to grow worried. He never admitted it of course, but Esme could see it in his face, if not in the way he bent out the window every other minute to look for the doctor's Cadillac.

That evening when the doctor finally returned from town, his arrival had put a surprising twist in their predictable schedule.

Edward's jaw dropped in disbelief as his father came through the door, arms loaded with pale brown paper bags and boxes, all of which bore a familiar black stamp.

Edward raised a hand to sift through his messy bronze hair as he stepped back to make room. "I know it's a nice gesture to keep the smaller stores in business, but is all of this really necessary?"

Doctor Cullen glared over the top of the smallest box in his arms.

"What's all of this?"

Esme appeared meekly in the middle of the stairs to see the cause of the commotion.

Neither man said anything to acknowledge her question, but the doctor wore a vaguely embarrassed look while Edward simply stared at the wall behind him.

"Those aren't for me, are they?" Her voice sounded awfully small.

Doctor Cullen suddenly looked utterly out of breath.

"Doctor—" She rushed down the rest of the stairs and snatched the smallest box from the top of the stack he carried to tear it open. Inside lay a neatly folded piece of lavender fabric, tied together with a pale ribbon. Something in her throat snagged with sadness as she stared at the wrapped dress. For a moment she stood, unknowing of what to say. "Why?"

His caring voice at once came to his defense. "It wasn't any trouble, Esme. I had to—"

Setting the box down by her feet as if it were coated in poison, she shook her head and raised both hands to frame her cheeks. "No, this is...too much. I—I don't need them." She suddenly felt very panicked.

Edward laughed in disbelief. "Jesus, woman! You need _clothes!_"

"Edward!" The doctor's eyes went wide as he chided his son sharply. He gave a weary sigh and bent to place the boxes on the floor by the staircase.

Edward stood apart from them, his eyes trained on the ceiling, lips firmly shut.

Esme self-consciously crossed her arms over the remains of the soiled but comfortable nightdress that she'd been wearing under various tunics for over a week. She oddly had not thought much of wearing the same clothing for such a long while. She hadn't felt that she deserved much more than what she already had, and she certainly did not want to be a burden on the doctor.

She heard Doctor Cullen sigh softly as he closed the front door. "Edward, please take these parcels upstairs to Esme's room."

Her eyes flickered up as Edward passed by in a flash. "My room?"

"Yes..." The doctor's eyes shifted toward the top of the stairs as he nervously rubbed his wrist with one hand. "Esme, there are a few things we should sort out now that you have been able to better handle your thirst."

Sensing he wanted to say more, she stood complacently, fiercely trying to ignore the scratch of her throat so that she could listen to all he had to say.

"I want you to feel at home here—not like a prisoner, but as a welcome guest." He smiled with ease, and she felt her stance relax a bit at his perceived friendliness. "I have purchased you some clothing and other necessities, only to make you more comfortable. I wish it to be well understood that I expect no payment of any sort from you in return."

At his last gentle reassurance, Esme felt the tension flee her body. "Thank you," was all she could whisper.

He nodded once, something in his eyes sparkling vaguely as the light played over his forehead. Her throat again tightened as he stepped closer, and she assumed the inherent protective positioning that had sadly grown all too natural when she was approached by another.

"It's all right..." he assured, his voice painfully quiet. His light eyebrows creased together in pity as he held his hand over the banister in a suggestion that they ascend the stairs together. "May I show you the room I had in mind for you?"

Trying gracefully as she could to assume a more relaxed pose, she nodded and followed him into the upstairs hallway.

Edward's shadow moved across an open door in the middle of the corridor where a pool of golden light spilled through from the room inside.

Doctor Cullen stopped when he reached the room, sharing a curt glance with his son before he set his back against the door to make space for Esme's entry.

"We never use the master suite. I reckon it will make a suitable place for you to keep your belongings and maintain some amount of...well, privacy."

Her chest tightened a bit at his careful wording as she tentatively stepped inside. Once past the door, her eyes wandered about the spacious room in awe. Everything was decorated ornately in shades of rich indigo and royal blue. The bed itself was more fit for a palace, and on the wall across from it there was a marble fireplace big enough to hide inside. Some of the furniture still hid under dusty white sheets – what she supposed was a vanity mirror, a few chairs, and a desk in the far corner. Suddenly feeling terribly out of place, Esme released a shaky breath and uttered another word of thanks to the doctor behind her. "It's beautiful."

Doctor Cullen smiled in a strangely heartbroken manner.

On his left, Edward stood to his full height, his jaw tensing and head jerking to the side as if in pain. His deep amber eyes rested on Esme for a strained moment before he ran a hand through his thick hair and looked away.

"Just—be careful not to break anything," the boy muttered tiredly as he stuffed the last parcel against the open empty wardrobe and slipped out the door.

The doctor's eyes fell closed as they listened for a distant slam of a door downstairs. Once safe to speak, his eyelids opened, a predictable apology melting in his eyes.

"Don't mind him," he whispered in earnest. "He is adjusting to this just as much as you are."

"I understand."

"You shouldn't," he interjected quickly, and she raised her eyebrows in surprise. "It isn't right, the way he has been treating you," he sighed, leaning a bit more heavily against the door frame. "I've tried to speak to him about it, believe me. But, well, the thing about Edward is... He's very stubborn."

The burn in Esme's throat torched for a startling second, distracting her from the conversation. Her eyes glazed over as she stared past the doctor, feeling a familiar spell of dizziness overcome her.

"Esme?" Doctor Cullen's voice was muffled.

"Sorry?"

His voice lowered in concern. "Are you feeling all right?"

She opened her mouth to respond with the truth, but decided against it. In all her ease of honesty around Edward, something still begged her to keep to herself around the doctor. It was unhealthy perhaps, and even a little vain, but she wasn't going to stop while she was ahead.

"Yes. Everything is...much better now," she murmured, aware that what she spoke was at least partially the truth. "Thank you for your generosity, Doctor Cullen."

That same aching flicker of sadness crossed his face as he nodded once, the light touching softly to his crown of abundant blond hair. "You're welcome." He paused, his hand grasping the door handle as if he were hesitant to close the door. "Good night, Esme."

She could tell, just from the melancholy unfamiliarity with the way he'd said it that the phrase had been long neglected by the doctor in his household. She wondered why, until she had placed her head against the pillow of her bed and found that she could not sleep a wink that night.

******-}0{-**

The very next morning, at the crack of dawn, Esme rushed to the doctor's side, urgent to seek out a cure to her strange condition.

"I can't sleep," she told him numbly.

He halted in the middle of donning his sweater, one arm outstretched awkwardly, stuck half-way into the sleeve. His small lips fell open in astonishment at her news, and she guessed he must have found it as shocking as she did.

"I thought I explained to you..." he murmured absently, his eyes flitting in a panic over her face.

"What?"

"Esme, you haven't been sleeping for _days _now. I thought that—Surely you realized this?"

"I..."

She blinked once, dumbfounded and exceedingly embarrassed.

Of course she hadn't slept for a week. She just hadn't bothered to give it a second thought.

Doctor Cullen's face softened seamlessly from shock into understanding. "It was a difficult week for you. Something like that would be easy to pass up."

"We don't sleep, then," she confirmed breathlessly. "We can't even force ourselves to sleep if we wanted to? Not at all?" she added in a meek whisper.

He shook his head solemnly as he blindly buttoned the front of his sweater in one fluid motion.

"I know it may seem overwhelming to you right now. But trust me, it isn't as unnerving as it sounds."

Locked in a daze from the weight of such a revelation, Esme was barely at a point to respond.

"Esme," he prompted softly. She looked up. "You're going to be fine."

As so many of the doctor's promises had been unfolding lately, he was right about at least one thing. By the end of that week Esme was, surprisingly, fine.

With the chance to finally come to terms with the extent of her new abilities, Esme was a force to be reckoned with during those early days. She spent much of her time either fascinated or brutally terrified of the damage she could do with just one hand, one finger. She ran down the stairs and her feet left impressions in the wood. Her hands glided over the banister and the structure collapsed. It was hardly embarrassing – it was just something she had come to accept. It was experimental, even amusing. Sadly, she had nothing better to do than to slowly destroy the structure of a very old but fortunately sturdy house.

Edward spent much time groaning his disapproval behind her, eying her warningly around every corner. As much as the doctor tried to tame his tough-hearted son, Edward was not impressed by their new house guest.

"Can't we keep her outside?" Edward asked his father, his eyes on the ceiling as dust rained down from Esme's footfalls in the hallway above.

The doctor just glared at him.

Having overheard Edward's sarcastic suggestion, Esme bolted her way downstairs to where her sire and his son stood, and declared that she would _love_ to be kept outside.

"You know very well why we cannot allow that, Esme," Doctor Cullen sighed, his voice firm but kind. Esme could see the fresh strains of his patience twisting in his soft golden eyes, and her head turned away. She could look out the windows, admire nature from afar, but it was never enough. How could he not see this?

His hand touched her shoulder, and she jolted at the unexpected contact. "I know you long for it," he whispered. "Freedom."

She thought she felt tears in her eyes. But crying was impossible.

"All I can do is promise you that in time you will claim it once again."

Somehow, she had to believe him when he told her this. Though the doctor's kindest words could never soothe every terror that came with blood-lust, Esme had managed to cultivate a tentative hope from his.

With unparalleled patience, he saw her to the bright end of the tunnel. And where the ending was found, she was freed of her shackles, released into a spellbinding fantasy world that she had somehow been too blind to see behind the thirst.

She was truly a vampire, now.

If there was one thing Esme learned from being a vampire, it was that death was full of far more wonders than life.

The world was constantly dancing like a flirtatious ballerina at her fingertips. If she reached far enough, she could catch hints of it, scrape at it patiently until bits of it were lodged beneath her fingernails. If she kept at it long enough, she could have the world in its entirety. She had an eternity to chip away at it until it was shimmering sawdust in her palms, but she was not that greedy.

There was an unfathomable richness to everything around her. A fourth dimension had been opened up – a sixth sense, a fifth season, a thirteenth hour.

How incredible it all was.

Colors were no longer flat, dull smears. They were more like gemstones, many-faceted and interacting with light from every angle. The trees were not brown and green – they were violet and sienna and a deep merlot, and a brilliant umber, and a foggy sort of blue like the mist on the cemetery floor.

There were not only stars in the sky. Stars were everywhere now. They swam like pinpoint swans through nitrogen and oxygen, and if she wanted to, she could breathe them into her lungs and out again.

Every insect that crawled through the city of soil had its own life story. She watched them attentively, as if they were noble actors in some theatrical performance played especially for her. A grand orchestra of unheard sounds dazzled her ears beyond tangible harmonics.

Every time she turned her head, she was astounded by the swift oceanic song of air rushing past, the silky trickle of a thousand strands of her own hair twisting against each other.

She could taste moisture and could feel every individual water droplet that collided with her skin. She did not have to watch the clouds to know when a storm was coming – the atmosphere positively pulsed with electrical current. Even before the storm's head was visible, she easily picked up the most distant rumble of thunder, like a cat purring behind her ear.

The singing of birds from a neighboring state was impossible to miss. Every ripple on the lake made a tsunami of sound waves. If she listened carefully enough, she swore she could hear the dull scrape of the earth's plates moving beneath her feet.

The sun decorated her skin with weightless chips of crystals in passing. Even the thickest clouds could not stop a stubborn sparkle from twinkling on her bare shoulder while she waltzed carelessly through the meadows and scaled the heights of trees that were anything but small and stupid.

If she fell from a tree now, she would not break a single bone. The air would draw its wispy arms around her waist and carry her slowly to the ground, where the grass would become a fine green stretch of mattress for her landing.

She could hear every petty argument between the cotton threads of her skirts as she ran. And her momentum challenged that of the planet beneath her – she could bend the earth's axis with a flick of her baby finger.

There were no limits in this world.

She could see the very specks of ultra-violet on the lining of the clouds.

She could smell the peaches growing in Georgia and the oranges growing in Florida and the cherries growing in Washington.

She could feel the warm blaze of Mt. Vesuvius upon her cheeks, and she could feel the bitter chill of Arctic icecaps upon her brow.

She could take her hand, sweep it across the air, and watch the microscopic debris make rainbows wherever she traced. The sky above her was a bewitching kaleidoscope of light and sound and speed.

She could grasp nightmares from thin air and crush them with her fist. She could pluck the toxic spirits from the earth and trample them with her bare feet.

She was beautiful. Powerful. A creature borne from fantasy.

Her quiet keeper watched her from the porch, hands gripping the cast-iron lace with the gentle majesty of one who saw more than his eyes revealed to him. She made a show of her newfound fascination with sensual details, knowing that his eyes were on her every move...and so her every move was executed with care and a crafty charm.

Every once in a while, she would let her eyes wander in his direction. Even the fleeting impression of his tall form by the sun-stained window was a thrilling charge for her peripheral. His soft smile hit her hard even from his distance, and he tilted his head in a teasing sort of way that seemed to say without words, _"I see you. I still see you..." _

She just did not believe it possible that her heart no longer beat. Perhaps it did not beat continuously, but the sight of him stirred a substantial oscillation somewhere in the cavity of her supposedly empty chest.

Everything centered around him. The doctor.

Esme was fairly sure that he now understood just how many ways he had saved her. And possibly, how many ways he had damned her.

She didn't think about those things. It was frankly impossible to dwell on the horrors when she was so distracted by the wonders. Her mind and body still sought to prolong the hopeless honeymoon of rationality. Her exploration of the new world never ended, but she readily issued a pause when she heard the lush strains of his melodic tenor calling her back to the house.

There was a lightness to his accent that made the things he said sound like sighs. Every word, if it had been a sharp, solid color in anyone else's voice, was made a sheer pastel when he uttered it.

It was most apparent, to her, in the way he said her name.

A soft 's' where there should have been a 'z'.

_Ess _– _may._

It took her breath away.

He spoke to her with such kindness, such gentility – his demeanor was wholly unencumbered by acrimony or distastefulness of any sort.

His eyes, once focused, never loosened their hold on hers when he spoke to her. For reasons unknown, it was terribly difficult to maintain eye contact with him. But if she made it through the initial insecurity, his eyes could seize her senseless. His gaze was even more fascinating in color than she had remembered it to be – so delightfully foreign, almost liquid-like. The color in his eyes, she noticed with some amusement, was something like the gel sort of substance found inside an apple pie.

The weight of his stare was a heavy burden to bear, and it was never long before she could not withstand the intensity in his eyes. But he never took his eyes off her. And when he could not be there, the boy was. She was always watched over.

She could imagine her counterparts slowly becoming familiar with the passing of time. Perhaps it would be sooner than she anticipated that the day would arrive when they were not such strangers to her. Or at least_, one _was no longer a stranger.

Esme had not quite considered the doctor a stranger. After all, they had met before. But it was practically an instant in her clouded memories, barely a fleeting impression he had left on her vulnerable teenage heart.

For a short period of time, they were allowed the chance to reminisce with a graceful awkwardness, while the bronze-haired teenager watched and listened intently to more than the words they uttered.

"The twentieth of July; Columbus, Ohio," Doctor Cullen recalled with ease. "The roads were terrible that night – flooded from the storm. I apologize for the lateness of my arrival."

Esme's legs buckled a bit, still startled by the perfection of a vampire's memory. "Y-yes. There was a storm," she remembered. "I wanted to watch it from the tree..."

He smiled a bit, angling his lips in a teasing manner that made her chest swell with a rare bout of happiness.

"Pardon my saying this, but when your housekeeper explained to me how you had acquired the injury, I expected my patient to be considerably younger in age."

She bit back a bashful smile. "I never was the most eager to grow up."

"I imagine living on a plantation might do that to a young woman," he supposed, honeyed eyes sparkling only for her. He walked to the window to fiddle absently with the curtains, seemingly uncertain as to whether he wished to part them, or cover the window. She watched him curiously while he studied the view outside the window, wondering why he still looked so lonely when there were two other occupants in the room with him.

"I never did thank you for taking care of me – my leg," she spoke out to him, hand absently stroking her kneecap above her skirt.

He turned around to meet her eyes, and his expression of loneliness seemed to fade. "Spare it no mention." Another teasing smile forced his lips apart. "I suspect the moment your leg had finished healing, you were up in that very same tree again."

His words were in jest, but they sparked a long-lost recollection that matched it with some truth. Esme _had _been up in that very same tree. In fact, she had climbed it daily, hoping for a stray gust of wind to come and send her falling to the ground below. If there had been any chance of having him heal her again, she would have gladly taken all the pain that came with it.

She had endured far worse pains from the hands of her hateful husband.

On the nights when Charles had gone away, Esme had taken advantage of her freedom to climb trees again. She climbed trees wherever she could find them; the more dangerous the better. If she would only lose her balance and come crashing back to the earth, her leg would have that lovely, sickly, twisted deformation it once had... Then perhaps Doctor Cullen would appear once again to right all of the wrongs in her leg and her life.

She flinched when she caught sight of Edward's caramelized gaze fixed darkly upon her face. No doubt he had seen the split second memory of her former husband that insistently recurred in the back of her mind. She would have to get used to censoring her thoughts more carefully.

Such a task quickly became a full-time chore, but there were many things keeping her mind off of petty memories. _Everything _was a distraction.

Not only the scent of blood, but the scents of the wood-grain of the house, of the plant-life surrounding the house, and of the occupants _within_ the house were a constant bombardment. Her own scent, something like raspberries and ginger, became the default fragrance of the oxygen she breathed, unless it was intruded upon by another foreign entity.

If she came across a looking glass hanging in the hallway, she was helpless to stop and stare at her reflection for a good hour at a time.

Esme Platt had never been a strikingly beautiful teenager. Even as a young woman, she was often referred to as homely or plain. Occasionally she was deemed bearable by the rogue suitor. But she had never found herself preoccupied with beauty, not until she had that beauty thrust upon her.

The first time she saw her reflection, she gasped in shock.

Her recollection of any face from her humanity had been muted to nothing, even in the case of her own. But here, it was clear that even her own face was unrecognizable.

"This is not my face," she said to the mirror, wondering how the scarlet-eyed woman's lips matched hers as she spoke.

"Your eyes will change with a prolonged diet of animal blood," the doctor interrupted softly from somewhere behind her.

Startled, she found his reflection in the mirror before her as he lingered by the doorway, his eyebrows drawn together as if in deep sadness.

"Why do I look so...different?" she demanded, her voice weak and regretful. As much as she'd truly wanted to ask, _"Why am I so beautiful?", _she could not bear to say it out loud.

The doctor seemed intrinsically aware of her unvoiced concern. Shifting uncomfortably, he lifted a hand to his neck and sighed. "The venom has altered your features," he explained quietly, lowering his eyes to the ground as if staring at her were a sin. "I'm sorry."

His apology puzzled her.

"I don't understand."

He sighed.

"When I first saw my reflection, it was in a pool of rain water," he confessed, his tone distant. "I refused to accept it as my face. For years after that, I banished every looking glass I came across. I avoided passing windows in the streets. I despised so greatly what I had become that I simply could not bear to look at myself."

Esme was silent as the doctor revealed this to her, privately baffled as to how he could ever think his reflection to be anything less than perfect. His face had always been the most beautiful out of any real man, any painted angel, any dream from the conjured works of her imagination. Yet, as he confessed this, it made perfect sense. The unclear definition of true beauty was never more plain to her than it was in that moment.

"How did you come to accept it?" she asked, desperate to hear the rest of his story...and so much more.

His eyes lifted at her question, but they did not meet hers in the mirror. "The same way you have come to accept every change you have gone through thus far," he said simply. "Time. Patience." His lips quirked into a wry little smile. "A fair bit of reluctance."

She returned his hesitant smile through the looking glass, and her heart gave a jolt as his gaze finally intercepted hers. His hand clutched his jacket on one side, tightening slightly as her eyes wandered over his face. There remained something self-protective about his stance, and it saddened her.

"You have no reason to fear your face, Doctor."

"I know that now," he consented quietly, his hand relaxing. "We have no reason to fear anything, truly. Yet we do. We fear."

"Fear isn't always a bad thing," she spoke the words blindly, and they came out as more of a question than a reassurance.

"You're right," he agreed, and finally he did not look so sad. The look on his face was now even more mysterious – neither happy nor distraught, but smooth and unfazed. Yet there was an intimate depth to his eyes that she could not avoid no matter how she tried.

She swallowed hard and reached up to touch the frame of the mirror. "So this _is _my face."

In the background, she saw him nodding. "Yes. This is your face."

And so Esme studied her new face with unmatchable intrigue.

Her eyes, though unsettling in their harlot's rose hue, were a fair pool larger than they had been before, shaded by long spidery lashes that had stiffened into the perfect angle of natural curl. The tone of her skin boasted the consistency of milk – clean, smooth, and white – while her cheeks were stained with the stationary blush of a pressed violet powder. Her hair, once thinned from malnutrition, now tumbled over her shoulders in glossy hazel waves. So painfully silky were her tresses, she was scarcely able to keep her fingers from combing through them every five seconds.

Her body matched her face in its flawless consistency, rendered slender and solid, like that of an unbreakable, life-size doll. And just like a doll, she was clothed in fine dresses that would have made any aristocrat's daughter green with envy.

The doctor continued to make rather extravagant purchases for her in the hopes of making her feel at home. Her wardrobe quickly grew to a size all too unsuitable for a young woman who never saw society. Everything from fine soap and linens to clothing and books were provided for her, though a roof over her head would have been quite enough. This was more home to her than she ever known a home before. She insisted that she did not need such fine possessions, but it seemed the doctor himself had an addiction to _providing._

It was almost distressing how deeply concerned he seemed for her well-being.

He would always check her eyes each morning, before he left for the hospital. She had grown disconcertingly fond of the daily minute when he meticulously gauged the color of her irises in the clear light from the open door, fingers gently cradling the sensitive underside of her jaw as if searching for lymph nodes. In many ways she was still his patient.

"I apologize if this seems a bit ridiculous to you," he murmured as he studied her gaze from a notably intimate angle. "It's best to be safe, though."

She smiled softly up at him, and he smiled just as softly back down at her. And it was a brilliant but strange connection.

No matter how many mornings he repeated the necessary ritual, the almost harsh care she saw in his eyes as he peered down at her never failed to ignite a gentle warmth around her neck.

And then the thirst became even more apparent.

If her gaze was too dark, he would order Edward to take her straight to the forest. It was a rare day when his diagnosis was positive, but she suspected he was only trying to keep her ahead of the flare.

Edward would take her by the hand, and his wiry seventeen-year-old body would seem so strong and certain as he led her fast through the foreign mountains and showed her how to take her kill. The art of hunting was one that was entirely instinctual, and though she had no true need for a teacher, Esme still found that Edward's presence was a comfort to her.

She grew steadily closer to the boy during their times hunting together in the forest. They ran alongside one another, both racing to reach a pack of coyotes or a herd of passing deer. When they collided with the animals, they slaughtered the group in seconds without a flinch. Esme drank through the desperation, cooling the fires in her throat while Edward did the same. Their mutual mood after a full hunt was considerably brighter, and though they rarely spoke about much to each other, the silence that hung between them on their way home was not unpleasant as it had been before.

As they came closer to the house, Edward slowed as if wishing to prolong their time alone. He glanced at Esme several times, looking as though he wished to start a conversation, but was tentative as to how begin. Esme decided to help him along.

"Do you hate me?" Her words were bold, but her voice was timid.

Edward stopped still in his tracks and breathed deeply as he fixed his gaze on a meaningless spot in midair. "No," he admitted quietly.

She thought she saw a vague smile on his lips. As he turned to face her properly, his eyes were dark with pity. "I'm just...adjusting to having another vampire around. I've only lived with Doctor Cullen for so long that I've forgotten what it was like to be mindful of another."

Esme's shoulders fell. "I don't want to be a burden to you. You know how terribly I feel about it, Edward. I know you must."

"I do know. But you don't need to feel _guilty_, Esme," he insisted gently. "You're not one to fault for your behavior – it's completely natural, and I'm sorry for giving the impression that my anger was directed toward you. If anything I am angry with my...father. He wanted to help you in the only way he knew how, but he never stopped to think of how it would change things. Now we all have to pay the price. Especially you."

Esme hung her head, ashamed that she still felt a tiny sting of resentment for the doctor's decision to make her a vampire. Not only was her life never going to be the same, but she could not even remember half the things she had left behind from her former life. The bitter aftertaste of washed out memories was all she kept.

"It can be frustrating to try and remember some things from your humanity," Edward said as he overheard her thoughts. "I hope you won't take offense to this, but I've had fair insight into some of your recent memories as you were enduring the transformation."

Esme blinked, slightly stunned. "You mean that you read my mind...as I changed into a vampire?"

"During your last minutes as a human woman, I had seen much of the life you left behind." His face was slightly uncomfortable. "I know of your past. I know why you chose to end your life. I know...things."

Not knowing how else to respond to this, Esme simply nodded in understanding. Before Edward could speak any further, she interjected, "Will you not tell the doctor?"

He gave her an odd look.

"I'd prefer he did not know," she admitted shakily. "At least for now."

Edward looked to the ground, his brow furrowed and intense. "Very well."

When his gaze rose to meet hers again, he looked upon her with new eyes. It was strange how just one moment shared in the woods could change their relationship so profoundly. But there was no denying that it had changed them, and it changed them for the better.

No apologies or pleas for forgiveness were given; it was simply a mutual understanding by both that they had never had proper introduction, but such an introduction was no longer necessary. They knew enough about each other from either context or thoughts. They were an awkward pair at first, but they made things work. They survived.

How ironic that the life of a vampire seemed a constant game of survival.

Esme's human life, when she finally came to remember bits of it, remained a foggy backdrop in the frame of her mind. Nevertheless, she recalled that it, too, had been a game of survival. Thus, she considered her trade a fair one. She believed now that she could learn to live as an immortal...as a vampire.

Esme was never disturbed at the prospect of hunting and drinking blood. She felt that she should have been. She should have been repulsed and disgraced and shocked by her behavior. But she wasn't, and she couldn't bother herself to be. The sweet substance gave her life when she had only death. It was ingrained into every inch of her – how to track the scent from miles away to the exact space to sink her teeth.

While the sheer power she possessed was thrilling, she was reminded of its dangers more often than she would have preferred.

She was informed of the ways of their kind, instructed on how to handle herself should she ever catch the scent of a human, and more. There was a school of information she was made to store away, and while much of this life felt almost blissful compared to the hell she knew before, it was almost like she was being raised by new parents – ones who showed their care for her in slightly different ways.

She considered herself in a kind of second childhood.

How appropriate that they fondly called her "_the restless newborn_."

* * *

_**A/N: **__I liked writing this chapter because I got to explore the brighter side to the sensory wonders of a newborn vampire. Once Esme is a bit more comfortable in her restraint she is able to see the fantastical side to being a vampire. This helps her come a little closer to accepting herself for what she has become, and also in coming a little closer to Edward and Carlisle._

_I'd very much like to hear what you thought about the way I tried to portray Esme's senses and anything else you might have found worth noting about this chapter. _


	8. Curiosity Cannot Kill

**Chapter 8: **

**Curiosity Cannot Kill**

* * *

The property on which the doctor and his son had taken up residence belonged to a grand estate that went by the name of Chartercrest. The house and its surrounding land had been abandoned a decade before and was presently feared by the nearby population.

It was supposed that the previous master of the mansion had murdered his family and buried them in the wine cellar, leaving their corpses to properly ferment before he disappeared and was never spotted again. Everyone in town was convinced that the property was cursed, and that whoever moved in was bound to be driven mad with the spirits that roamed its grounds.

Little did they know, the very family that now called it home would have driven those spirits mad. The closest thing to a crazed organist that would fill the halls with haunting melodies would be a copper-haired pianist, and the closest thing to a mad scientist concocting curses in his lab would be a gentle-hearted doctor. And now, the closest thing to an evil witch casting spells in the garden would be Esme herself.

It worked to their advantage having such rumors associated with this house. It lessened the chances that anyone would willingly show up on their doorstep.

It may have looked well enough from a distance with its plum-colored bricks and sturdy gray stones that accented the black-framed windows. Several chimneys capped the soot-colored shingles of an expansive roof, and a jungle of intricate iron rails secluded countless balconies to decorate all sides of the artistically asymmetrical structure.

But as one came closer, tall vines of ivy climbed the lengthy façade, choking the Corinthian columns, smothering the stones, and bruising the brickwork. Behind the towering gates of a cast iron fence, a looming promenade of weeping willows all but hid the gravel drive from sight. The glass panes of the windows were dulled by a mysterious indigo shade that could not be cleaned away. In the gardens, a rusty fountain was only filled when rain fell, and Roman replicas were blinded by the overgrowth, their marble modesty preserved by sheer neglect.

Despite its presently ominous exterior, Esme could see that the house had once looked stately and refined, even enchanting. She imagined it could look that way again with a few caring calculations and patient perseverance. One day perhaps, if she was not driven out of this town by a torch-carrying mob, she would beautify this residence and transform it from haunting to heavenly.

In the meantime, Esme had explored every room in the old mansion she now called her home while dusting the cobwebs from the chandeliers and behind the curtains. Though she never once encountered a skeleton in the dumbwaiter or a ghost in the wardrobe, she found things that were of far more interest to her.

Esme uncovered all sorts of unlikely treasures from the cellar to the attic. Most were antiques that could not even be called antiques because they were so aged. An assortment of mysterious religious relics lay mostly untouched in the bottom drawer of her bureau. There was an old, unlocked chest at the foot of her bed which was made of dark maroon wood and smelled like a salty ocean inside. The bottom was bare, so she kindly filled it with the rest of her findings.

In the dining room hutch, there was an empty perfume bottle from India. In the kitchen cabinet, an empty bottle of castor oil from the hospital. Under the piano bench in the music room, a small jade carving of an Asian princess. Beneath the bathroom sink, a hand-held brass mirror whose glass was cracked ever so thinly no human could see the imperfection. Under the tablecloth in the tearoom, a pair of lacy lavender gloves that would have better suited a duchess. In a jewelry box on her dresser, a single earring of Austrian crystal for which she could find no mate. In the sitting room desk, the most romantic poems she had ever read, penned perfectly into a small scarlet journal in English, Latin, French, and Italian. She read even the ones she could not translate. They were still beautiful.

She kept the things she liked for herself, and then she set out to find new ones in new rooms.

But one room remained unexplored.

Esme regarded the doors to Doctor Cullen's study with a taunting curiosity. Whatever lay behind those doors positively burned for her discovery.

As she found herself walking past the doors on occasion, her hand would press itself against the heavy wooden panel, or linger tentatively on the curved golden handle, longing for just a glimpse through the barrier in front of her. At first it was only slightly frustrating, but it quickly became unbearable. Perhaps the doctor would have allowed her entry had she asked politely – she could hardly imagine such a kind man refusing her anything. But it was a terribly improper thing to ask.

One morning when the doctor was away, she saw Edward slip inside the room without permission, and she invited herself in along with him. His proportionally glorious face looked back at her as she was caught between the door and its frame, and she suffered through an imaginary blush. The heavy door pushed grudgingly back against her as if trying to discourage her entry, and despite her supernatural strength, she almost turned around. To her surprise, his ruddy lips broke into a painfully beautiful grin.

"Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it won't kill you – you're immortal now, you know."

As if she could forget such a thing.

She consented with a shy glance to her feet. Edward welcomed her inside with an amused chuckle, assuring her that the doctor would not take a scalpel to her neck if he discovered her trespassing.

The room was even more wonderful than she'd imagined. Unlike the other rooms of the house, it was sparsely furnished, more spacious than was necessary. A desk, a grandfather clock, several glass cabinets, and two velvet armchairs by the floor-length windows were all the substantial pieces in the room. But the absence of furniture was made up for with the abundance of antique trinkets that lined the shelves and window sills.

Each wall was cloaked in rich mahogany paneling, not a space free from shelves of books that climbed the imposing height to the lofty ceiling. A second level above the fireplace was lined with books as well, separated from the rest of the room by a narrow balcony, and accessed by a discreet spiral staircase in the far corner of the room. Beneath the rafters, an elegant chandelier hung, its strings of teardrop crystals weeping silently under the molten wax of candles that would likely never be lit again.

Thick velvet curtains that would have better suited the stage of an opera house obstructed several windows, while the rest were tied back by long golden ropes with tassels. An antique globe whose oceans were the color of sand stood beside the door, and as she passed it, her hand absently twirled it on its axis, finding it reluctant to rotate from lack of use.

_His _scent was in everything, permeating the air with abandon so that she received a gift with every breath. The fireplace that still glowed with dying embers infused the space with an uncommonly sweet aroma, as if he had tossed brown sugar into the flames. Every footstep on the plush Cabernet carpet was near silent as she approached the polished wooden desk placed strategically within a half-circle of sunlit windows, where she imagined the doctor would sit by himself during the day, shimmering in solitude.

A row of empty vaccines lay in the center of the desk, their intimidating needles gleaming in the light. If she had been ignorant as to the owner of the desk, she would have assumed he was something sadistic. Out of habit, she reached for the smallest one, ready to pocket it for her personal collection, but a nasty lurch in her stomach reminded her that she would have been stealing... from _him_.

The only artificial light in the room came from a tall tiffany lamp by the corner of his desk. The rounded stained glass mosaic that covered the bulb embellished a Biblical narrative of the Tree of Knowledge. The milky green serpent was so opaque it hardly let any light through, but the single red apple glowed like a large ruby, just within her reach – and though Esme no longer held interest in the fruits of the earth, it looked appetizing even to her.

Edward watched Esme closely from his leaning post on the other end of the room, like a tall, handsome eagle with his citrine stare trained on her every move.

She bashfully turned away from his general direction and distracted herself with the shelves full of books behind her. Some books were bound so thickly she could scarcely imagine they would fit between two hands. She looked to Edward questioningly, and he gave a small nod of consent, walking up behind her as she pulled a thinner anthology from the shelf.

The pages were wonderfully musty, burned by bare oxygen over a sluggish century or so. The print was handwritten in Arabic, and several pages contained fanciful illustrations of griffins and ghosts and mermaids. She carefully returned the book to its proper place with reluctance, not so secretly thinking how nice it would look with the rest of her treasures.

The walls were filled, horizontally and vertically, every which way she looked. And where there were not books, there were paintings whose subjects ranged everything from emperors to pirate ships; Rococo to Renaissance. Aware of her deep appreciation for art, Edward humored her in explaining how each was acquired and the fascinating stories behind the scenes depicted. His serious tone had more than once fooled her into believing a far-fetched insistence that several of the pieces had been stolen by the good doctor himself during the French Resistance.

The boy could have fooled her into believing anything. He was an impressive liar, ironically difficult to read while he looked upon everyone else as an open book. Even while he said the most ridiculous things, his eyes would have measured a perfect seven on the pH scale.

"Doctor Cullen would never steal anything," Esme murmured dismissively, hoping to prove that she would not fall for Edward's stories no matter how witty they were.

Edward's youthful face turned stony with a worn frown. "He stole your life."

Whether or not there was truth in this, Esme was uncertain. Unless it was uttered as a craftily posed challenge, something about the assumption sounded... _false_.

"I have more life in me now than I had when I was alive," she whispered sullenly, absently fingering the spines of musty books.

"Forgive me," he murmured after studying her for a long moment from behind his dark eyes. "I can see that we were each changed under vastly different circumstances."

"You weren't ready to die?" she questioned timidly.

"No,_ I_ was not." He looked out the window, and the gray light that ghosted over the sharp angles of his grave face gave him the appearance of a handsome corpse. "The Spanish Influenza believed I was."

Pity prickled through her chest at his revelation. "I'm sorry."

He shook his head lightly. "My mother begged Doctor Cullen to save me in any way that was within his power, and as you know, he has little restraint when people beg him for something." The tiniest tug of a smirk raised the corner of his lip.

"Then you aren't happy with this way of life?" she asked with surprise.

Edward sighed heavily and shrugged. "I consider myself somewhere on the lowermost level of contentment. I have not considered taking the 'scarlet path', as the doctor likes to call it… Though, he has offered me the option several times."

"Has he?"

Edward looked back at her suspiciously. "Has he not offered_ you_ the option?"

Her mind flashed back to their painful struggles in the cellar. "He told me I had a choice…"

"We do have a choice. He may have made us this way, but he cannot make our decisions for us." The boy's gaze darkened further then, and his husky voice lowered furtively. "We could leave, you know. One day, if we wanted. We could leave him and live the way our instinct wants us to live."

Esme looked up in shock, incredulous that he would suggest such a thing. She could never abandon the doctor, and she could scarcely believe Edward would ever want to do something so cruel either. So why would he ask her? Surely he knew her answer…

She saw the flicker in his eyes as he read her mind.

He was testing her.

"I remain here by my own free will," she defended firmly, and though the truth may not have been plain in her mind at this point in time, it was plain in her heart. She remained for Doctor Cullen.

"You remain because..."

Edward did not finish the sentence, and that left her worried. The charm in his face returned somewhat as he closed his eyes patiently and faced her.

"I know everything you have ever felt, dreamed, and desired. I see with your mind's eye. You can hide _nothing_ from me, Esme."

With that quote, her most adamant resolve was scrubbed fruitless. Her misunderstanding of the potency of his gift now made sense. Edward would know everything, regardless of whether she was in his immediate presence or not, and she would simply have to accept that.

Most importantly, he could know things that even she may not realize. Deep, personal, frightening things.

Sensing her discomfort, the youth carefully turned his attentions to the Byzantine icons displayed by the window. Running a lean finger along the beveled gold frame of a triptych, he suggested that Esme speak around the doctor more often.

"He'd like to know you better."

Her heart quivered with disbelief for a moment. The doctor wanted to know her better? How could someone so deeply fascinating harbor any interest in her pathetic life?

Esme mumbled some nondescript little excuse, but Edward heard the thoughts that been poorly masked by it.

"There's no rush of course. We're anything but pressed for time," he said agreeably.

A sly sort of smile crossed his face, and he looked at her pointedly as he swept a hand through the maple mess of his hair. Half his face caught the sunlight streaming through one of the windows, and the spectral reflections danced jubilantly across the walls and back again – an enchanting chaos that should have had the accompaniment of piercing, shimmering chimes – but it went about hauntingly silent, soundless. Ethereal and like a daydream.

Something about Edward boldly proclaimed itself worthy of Esme's utmost adoration, and that had been the first time it came to her attention. While it was quite plain that he admired Doctor Cullen, he was obviously not one to follow another by stepping within their precise footprints. Edward had a mind of his own, not to mention access to everyone else's. He was witty, intelligent, and insightful. And he would prove more than helpful to Esme in defeating her insecurities when the time came.

Perhaps it would not be so intimidating to befriend a mind reader.

He grinned as she thought this, and she quickly turned her heated face to the paintings on the wall. "Doctor Cullen seems to be an avid collector of fine arts."

Edward laughed. "He likes to think he is."

_He has quite a collection. He should be proud, _she thought silently.

"You like painting, don't you?" Edward remarked.

It was a strange assumption, and for a moment Esme wondered if he was simply asking on the terms of appreciation.

"Yes," she answered quickly.

"You were once an artist?" he probed, eyes curious as he leaned closer.

She nearly laughed. "I don't believe so. Amateur at best, if I was anything." Her smile faltered as she tilted her head to admire a richly detailed oil painting of the interior of a church. "I imagine I've always held a passion for art."

As she caught sight of Edward beside her, she noticed his stealthy sort of grin as she confessed this. She hesitantly mirrored his smile and cocked her head to consider the next spell-binding canvas before them.

"Who painted this piece?" she asked.

"Francesco Solimena," he answered.

With a jolt, her eyes fixed on the suspiciously familiar blond figure in the corner of the painting. Leaning in to peer closer, Esme murmured, "This isn't..."

She could hear the smirk in Edward's voice as he spoke from behind her. "Yes, that's him."

"You mean Doctor Cullen is..." Her voice trailed away as her eyes widened, taking in the unmistakably early 19th Century setting of the painting in which he was so precariously juxtaposed.

Her head was already spinning at the thought.

"Yes," Edward repeated, his tone greatly amused. "He's really, _very _old."

"Lord in Heaven, I didn't think he'd be—" With a start, she hastily turned to face the boy, her hand flush against her heart. "_You're _not so old, are you?"

"Ahh, no," Edward shrugged humbly, as if this were something of a shame. He raised his eyebrows in a charming manner and smiled crookedly, pointing a thumb at his chest. "Circa 1901."

Esme breathed in relief. "Not that there's anything _wrong _with being born a century ago."

_Oh, dear God. To even be speaking like this was all too ridiculous. _

Edward cocked his head to get a better view of the look of mild horror as it crossed her face. "You know, you're more amusing than I thought you would be," he admitted.

"I'm not sure 'amusing' is the word I'd use to describe anything of what I'm feeling right about now," she consented, entirely honest.

A gentle pat on her shoulder gave her a quick rush of comfort. "You'll get used to it," Edward assured with a chuckle.

* * *

_**A/N:**__ In case anyone didn't recognize the name, Francesco Solimena was the artist who painted the picture of Carlisle with the Volturi which hangs in his study. And so we anticipate Edward will reveal to Esme some of Carlisle's past with the Volturi. :)_

_Let me know if you approve of my portrayal of the characters so far, or anything else you found interesting. _


	9. Pointless Pondering

**Chapter 9:**

**Pointless Pondering**

* * *

With the magical concoction of time, polite conversation, and plenty of warm blood to sate her thirst, Esme began to feel less like a troublesome acquaintance and more like a welcome guest of the household. She grew closer yet to Edward, wasting away the hours with him while Doctor Cullen resumed his full-time shifts in the hospital. It was easy enough to be well-behaved now, so long as she was properly fed. Edward was a vigilant caregiver as well as a charming entertainer.

Many mornings after the doctor's departure, Esme would listen for the genius melodies drifting from the music room where Edward spent the better part of his day, teasing the keys of a glossy black concert grand. She imagined if there had been ghosts in the house, they would have held grand dances in the ballroom anytime he began to play.

The first few times she heard him practicing, she contented herself to merely listen from her room, concerned that he might fit the worn stereotype of a temperamental musician. Once she had gathered the courage to walk past the music room in curiosity while he played, he kindly gave into her thoughts and requested that she join him for a while.

She lingered by the doorway for a long time, entranced by the fluid force of his fingers across the keyboard. Watching his hands sail effortlessly over the ivory waves was utterly fascinating. She was entranced by the way his hands held such command over the instrument – dominant and possessive – seemingly pulling the song forth from a stubborn set of strings.

As he drew the song to a graceful close, Esme applauded him silently in her mind with unvoiced praise, and he looked back at her, smiling.

"I'll dedicate it to you, then."

"Oh…" She looked down to her feet bashfully.

He laughed, and when she looked up, he gestured for her to come sit beside him.

"Don't be such a stranger, Esme. I promise I won't bite you." He bit down on an ironic smirk at his own distasteful joke. "…Unlike Carlisle."

_Carlisle…?_

Only under certain, considerably rare circumstances are vampires profoundly stricken. This was the first of which Esme had yet to experience. And as she stood there, with her lips falling open, staring at Edward's innocent face, she realized how preposterous it was that she had gone a full month without once asking for the doctor's first name.

Now, thanks to a casual slip of the tongue, she had it.

Carlisle.

Fanciful angels, was that really his name? It was so…_him. _And somehow utterly unsurprising, as if she had known it deep down since their first meeting. But she hadn't, had she?

No, he'd never once revealed it to her. Their relationship remained that of a doctor and his patient, both afraid to take the next steps into anything beyond that. It was safe with the difference in titles, a pleasant patriarchy.

Well, it would all come crumbling down now.

_Carlisle Cullen._

She almost giggled at the alliteral appellation in her mind. It was, to a point, amusing…until it was presented alongside its owner's face. Good God, it just fit _too _well.

Having thoroughly embarrassed herself in her blatant over-analysis of his name in her mind, Esme breathed a heavy, apologetic sigh for Edward's sake and settled herself on the bench beside him, promising herself that there would be another time for poring over the doctor's name.

Edward did not save himself the decency of masking his laughter as he playfully walked his fingers through several arpeggios, waiting for her to descend from her flustered little cloud.

"I'll have to come up with a name for your song," he mused casually, the humor still evident in his voice.

"It doesn't have to be creative," she offered with a wave of her hand.

He shook his head, grinning as he fondly touched the keys. "I'll think of something."

"It's a shame hardly anyone has the fortune of hearing you play. You might have had a quite a grand career as a concert pianist." He ducked his head at her praise. "Truly, Edward."

"Even if I chose to be so ambitious, I'm afraid my appearance alone would make selling the tickets a daunting task."

She cocked her head in confusion. Surely he was joking. A young, handsome, genius musician would have been the ideal attraction for a replete audience.

He sniffed in amusement again. "I mean that I'm clearly not human. My obvious youth makes it somewhat more difficult to create the illusion of aging as Carlisle does. People would start to notice if I spent too much time in the public eye," he explained. "I've already roused suspicions from a few of the town schoolboys."

"Really?" she asked in a hushed voice, interested.

"According to half of the students at Saint Simon's Academy, I'm the ghost of long-deceased sailor who drowned in Lake Superior over ninety years ago," he boasted with a debonair smirk.

Esme promptly dissolved into bouts of sparkling laughter. "And how do you feel being the topic of conversation amongst schoolchildren?"

"Oh, I hardly have it bad compared to Carlisle," he mentioned casually, and her laughter began to fade.

"What do they say about _him_?"

"Not the students, his colleagues," he corrected wryly. "They find him …_provocative_ to put it politely."

An unpleasant churning in her stomach was slaughtered by fierce protectiveness as she digested the unsettling information.

She shrugged, trying not to be so bitterly affected. "I suppose that's only natural."

"You wouldn't think that if you heard what the younger nurses do to him in their spare time."

She pursed her lips, furiously tamping down the urge to hiss. "What would that be?" she managed to ask through her teeth.

Edward raised a cautious eyebrow. "I'm not quite sure how the trend began – nor do I want to know – but they somehow acquired a supply of powdered sugar, which they occasionally dust their fingers with, and…" He paused purposefully, gauging her expression which quite suddenly became scandalized, before he continued with a crooked smirk. "…and then they brush their fingers against his coat, or if they're lucky, his hand."

Esme scrunched her face in a mixture of confusion and revulsion and shook her head. "Why on earth would they put… _powdered sugar_ on him?"

Edward stared at her for a moment as though it were obvious, and with a hilariously straight face, he responded simply, "Because he's sweet."

"For heaven's sake!" she burst out, vehemently ignoring the fluttering verification she harbored within her heart. "He should find a different hospital to work at," she muttered angrily as she prodded repeatedly at the highest note on the piano in front of her.

"I daresay the problems are equally dismal for us no matter where we place ourselves in this world." Edward sighed, and with a light touch to her hand, discouraged her from the annoying repetition. "You're rather funny when you're mad," he added bluntly.

A distinct heat weighed upon the back of Esme's neck, and she tried to keep from dwelling on the things that had provoked such strong feelings of resentment in her.

Why _was _she so angry?

It was not as if the nurses were harming her doctor by being discreetly flirtatious with him. But for some reason, Esme found this almost worse.

It was all frightfully confusing.

Always the considerate gentleman, Edward proceeded to distract her with various tall-tales from his human childhood. No matter how down or depressed she was feeling, he could always make her laugh.

While his humorous side was a welcome refreshment, Edward did not neglect to make Esme aware of _the rules._

Esme followed _the rules _religiously. She watched and learned; she did as she was told. She was given a new set of commandments:

Never venture out unaccompanied.

Do not breathe in the outside air unless it is first deemed safe for you to do so.

Alert others of your thirst the moment it arises.

Be patient with yourself. Always have patience.

The last was without a doubt the hardest commandment to follow. Even as a human, Esme recalled being short on patience, the only exception being how long it took her to transform from a girl with a dream to a woman with a broken heart.

This woman remained, and however physically sound her heart might have been, it no longer beat. But it was certainly a working element within her. She was reminded of its presence whenever Doctor Cullen spoke to her.

Esme had not been quite the same since he at last told her to call him by his name.

It was a morning like any other. She had spent the sunrise at Edward's side, watching him compose at his piano. She'd thought they were alone. Then she caught the doctor's scent.

Turning around just the slightest bit to see him standing in the doorway, her eyes came to rest discreetly on his now familiar figure.

He looked so fondly upon the scene, as a father looks upon his children, or a grandfather his grandchildren. Something that ran far deeper than just a superficial affection or even care was billowing gently in his eyes, and even from her distance, Esme could see it. He waited for his son to finish the song before speaking softly through the echo of the final chord.

"A brilliant piece, Edward," his voice was passionately sincere, and it nearly stunned Esme to hear it. "That one deserves to be named."

Edward smirked subtly to himself as he thumbed through his self-written music. "Thank you." His voice was almost too quiet to hear, but clearly pleased.

With nowhere reasonable to look but at the blond man in the doorway, Esme's eyes were forced to meet his. He smiled, and immediately she straightened to improve her posture. There was undeniably something between them, and while she hesitated to call it _awkwardness_, there was a certain tension lingering in the air when they locked gazes. The only way to solve it, it seemed, was to speak.

"Good morning, Doctor," she murmured politely, returning the smile. Her hand gripped tightly to the lid of the piano as his lips opened to respond. Nothing he could have said would be threatening in any way, yet Esme was inexplicably nervous any time she sensed he was bound to speak.

Perhaps he would simply return the greeting, and she would sigh in relief, hearing precisely what she had expected to hear.

Perhaps she was nervous for nothing.

But what he said was not what she had been expecting.

"You mustn't call me that," he all but blurted, his face unreadable.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I believe we've made fair acquaintance for you to address me by my given name," he clarified.

After a moment of piecing his words together, her lips fell open in realization.

He was _requesting _that she call him by his first name.

She wished he had not been given such a heartbreakingly beautiful name. It was so unfair to the people who were forced to address him. She refused to form the syllables out loud at first, but he insisted. After all, _Edward _called him by name. It was inappropriate that she should have to use the doctor's title when the boy did not.

She politely continued to call him _Doctor. _But he kept on insisting.

He could be so insistent.

So she called him _Carlisle._

But she said it only when absolutely necessary because it felt so wrong and so wonderful.

Now that she had come to know and use his name, Esme could not keep herself from thinking it in her head, saying it wherever it was remotely safe to say it. And when she was thinking of his name, it was only natural that she would start thinking of him…and what a slippery slope that was.

Her thoughts were always whisking her away at times of inconvenience. Concentration was a challenge. Her heart, if she still possessed one, was _heavier._

She was just more prone to...notice things.

Like the subtle tide of air flowing to and from his lungs, and the lush murmur of his deep golden lashes as he blinked.

It was the way he spoke, the almost Shakespearean softness, with the occasional slip of dated English; the charming little things he accidentally said – things that no one else said these days. Every inadvertent _"The hour is late," _and _"Make haste," _and _"I beg thee." _Every contraction he forgot to make, every decorative formality he failed to omit – they were all precious to her.

Sometimes when he spoke to her, she became lost in every detail of his face, unable to hear a word he was saying.

The shape of his lips somehow did not fit with the rest of his face. They were the kind of lips that belonged to a child in an antique portrait – doll-like, almost frail. Fuller on the bottom than the top, forming an innocent pout. His ears were rather small – the shell that framed each against his hair was perfectly round and smooth. The contours of his face seemed somewhat noncommittal to being either too angled or too softened; in effect, the linear continuity that composed his profile changed with the way he turned his head. She could not decide what caused his face's gentle opposition to being too sharply rendered, but it was an imperceptible inconsistency that somehow spoke volumes to his personality.

His skin was flawless, whiter than the untainted underside of a swan's wing, the elegant ridge of his cheek lightly blushed with watercolors of the most unassumingly romantic shades of pink. When his hair was a mess, it was never _really _a mess. A few strands of sunshine would be out of place, waved and curled in some places, teased with a whisper of static charge in others. Yet it never _looked _messy. It was as if an invisible artist followed him everywhere he went, rearranging his hair into a wonderfully aesthetic halo, glossed like gilded gossamer.

This would have never been so fascinating if he only knew what he looked like to her. The most amazing part about it all was that he never gave one thought about his appearance.

And it was hilarious for her to think of what would happen if she did stop him one day, pull him aside and ask him, "_Do you ever think about what every strand of your hair looks like at every moment of the day?"_

Did all vampires notice things like this, with their enhanced sensory perception? Was it an inevitable series of interceptions, or was she simply obsessed?

Signs pointed to the latter. Every day.

His scent was like soft incense, the way it drugged her unassumingly. It was like vanilla fire, and apple blossoms, and cold spring mornings drowning in dew; it was like peppermints, and piney citrus, and warm gingerbread whose innocence was spoiled by the spice of a sharp merlot. Like Christmas caught in the springtime. It was almost heavy when she breathed it in, coating her tongue and filling her throat until she could almost taste it.

She noticed things like this now – things like scent – imperceptible things.

He returned from the hospital, and he smelled like the faintest flavors of human blood and liquid medicine and all sorts of stomach-churning chemicals. And the awful medley was made enticing because of _the blood _– the forbidden fruit that clung to his clothing, to his hair, to his skin.

Once when he had returned, there had been too much of the scent upon his person, and Esme had crushed herself against his coat like a coal-eyed magnet, about to bite the fabric off with her own teeth.

He had to grip her arms and hold her away from him at a safe distance while she slowly calmed from the unepexted fit. Brief as the feral episode was, it frightened Esme just as deeply as it embarrassed her. From then on, Carlisle was ten times as careful to strip himself of the humans' scent before coming back to the house, wishing to spare Esme from having to face such mortification a second time.

But she had to accept that it would always be a problem.

He smelled like sin because he wanted to help them. He sacrificed his thirst to save their lives. He let them spill their blood before him, and he did not drink. He did nothing but care for them.

He was amazing.

She...admired him.

Every day his kindness only seemed to amplify impossibly, until she began to wonder if he was perhaps possessed by an angel. Her thoughts made Edward shudder on the occasion, but the boy was commendably forgiving.

She and Edward often spent hours discussing literature in the library or songs in the music room. They compared preferences for composers and philosophers alike, and where Esme was not well-informed in any field, Edward took the time to teach her all he knew. Years of being cloistered inside one's house certainly served to expand the mind. Edward, a mere seventeen-year-old, boasted more intelligence and worldliness than the greatest politicians of contemporary times. Esme was more than impressed.

As stubborn as the boy had been in the beginning, Edward was surprisingly easy to warm up to. Of course, Esme had been wise enough to realize that ample flattery of his youthful male ego would bring her to his good side sooner rather than later. An interest in music was an even surer way to gain Edward's affections. In her heart she could gather that the boy was just as grateful for her company as she was for his.

Their days together were bittersweet, as Doctor Cullen watched their relationship solidify from the outside. Esme wished to invite him closer somehow, but he seemed hesitant to intrude whenever she and Edward were together. He looked over them with silent smiles of approval, quietly departing for the hospital when the hour struck, as they accordingly built a predictable schedule.

A weekend finally arrived where Carlisle was free to stay home with them. Together, they congregated in the music room where it was most comfortable and Edward's music served as a distraction from any awkward impasse that might clause in their wake.

To Esme, Carlisle's added presence was as comforting as it was stirring. She could imagine it would take some getting used to, sharing her time with him as well as his son. As much as she hated to admit it, she found it an imposition to cater to both of them at once. Something about it overwhelmed her, particularly from the doctor's end. She had the distinct feeling it had to do with the way he was looking at her.

His eyes were too intense. When he looked at her, even from across the room for one second, a flash of something in even the most passive glance from him was enough to flower a fierce fever in the pit of her stomach. He had no business looking at her that way. But it was like he couldn't help it; that was just the way he looked at people. It was like he was scrutinizing their souls in the most gentle, non-judgmental way.

It was both beautiful and aggravating.

Just like him.

Carlisle was such a puzzle to her – so calm and agreeable was his facade that it was most surprising when Esme eventually came to notice how much of an authoritarian he really was. She was hardly allowed to be anywhere on her own. He was fiercely adamant that she stay inside on days when the winds rushed in an unfavorable direction.

Esme shyly expressed to Carlisle her wish to be outside more often, and after three days of repeating the request, he indulged her at last.

On a clear, slightly cold Sunday night, he deemed the air clean enough for Esme to venture out in his company. Edward had accompanied them when they left the house that evening, but his mysterious disappearance halfway through the night had perplexed her. The doctor hadn't seemed to notice his son's absence.

Walking alone with Carlisle was strange. While Esme felt protected by his nearness, there was still something vaguely discomforting about his every footstep following her. The silence between them begged to be filled. The crickets were trying their hardest to sing through the void, but their song, while lovely, was beautifully awkward.

Esme cleared her throat as they left the path, their footsteps marshy on the dew-studded grass. "So Edward reads minds," she said to fill the silence.

It was the first thing that came to mind.

There was a soft note of amusement to the doctor's voice as he answered. "He bears a burdensome gift, the dear boy."

Esme considered for moment, her eyes taking in the vast yard of the estate, all glistening in the moonlight. Abruptly, she turned to the doctor and bluntly asked him, "So what is your gift?"

Carlisle raised both eyebrows in surprise, his face looking exceptionally pale in the dark. The crickets chirped encouragingly for him to respond, but he still made them wait just a little bit longer. Esme's suspense was enhanced by his minor delay until finally he spoke.

"I have no gift." His voice was quiet, but not ashamed. He made it sound like a secret, and this caused her throat to tighten.

It seemed like a lie.

"Are you sure?" she asked, uncertain if he would consider this a taunt or not.

He smiled easily, and she assumed he had taken it in the best manner. "Fairly sure."

"Hm." Esme turned her eyes down to the grass as she continued walking towards the forest. "Is it possible that _I _could have a gift?"

"Certainly possible."

She smiled out of his view, imagining the endless possibilities for unknown powers she could posses.

"We may have to wait a long while before we find out what it is," he added with a chuckle.

Esme sighed humbly. "There's probably nothing special about me."

"I very much doubt that, Esme."

Tiny chills coiled through each of her fingers as he said her name. She hesitated to offer him a smile, but once she had caught sight of the forgiving charm in his eyes, her lips were untameable.

"Where are we going?" she asked him helplessly, noticing that her feet were headed in no fixed direction. He had been following her faithfully all the while, and she wondered now if he had noticed she had been doing nothing more than going in wide circles about the yard.

A gentle grin crossed his face. "Come this way," he said as he gestured in the opposite direction. "Let's get away from all these trees."

In barely a flash, they were free to the clear land behind the estate, looking out beyond a sea of deep emerald grass. The scent of pine was intoxicating upon the air, and the hum of the earth rang softly in her ears. Esme was astounded by the sights and the sounds – mundane as they once had been to her eyes and ears, they were nothing less than a grand symphony now.

Exploring the world at night was, in a way, even more thrilling than the daytime. She could have found her way through the deepest parts of the forest with ease, never losing her sense of direction or her sense of sight. The atmosphere was transparent to her eyes, and under such conditions the moon was nearly as bright as the sun. She could see every crater on its face, could fully envisage its three-dimensionality from a distance. It was spectacular.

Mentally connecting the starry constellations was hardly a challenge to her now. She could even decipher the colors of those stars from light-years away...pink, blue, the sharpest white. They were all arranged almost artistically within the sky – a perfect composition on an ebony canvas.

No matter how preoccupied Esme became with her study of the sky, she never lost awareness of Carlisle's presence behind her, listening intently to his soft footsteps in the grass and his even softer breathing. The sounds were shamefully titillating, causing the most curious sensations – like the fleeting caress of a feather quill beneath her navel.

The rich sound of his voice made the quill quicken with a vengeance, as he told her to turn to the West and look at Venus.

The planet that was once an oddly bright star that never flickered now showed its stormy secrets in silvery gaseous clouds, swimming across its spherical surface.

Spellbound, Esme started up the nearest hill to get a closer look, but she halted as her hand was suddenly encased in a smooth, warm pressure.

"Stay close, now," his voice reminded gently from over her shoulder.

She turned around too late, and her gaze first found their linked hands before it found his eyes.

He looked impossibly stunning in the moonlight.

He blinked twice, almost apologetically, letting his fingers loosen around her wrist...and slowly she slipped away. A miserable void slithered up her arm from the place where he no longer touched her, and suddenly Esme didn't want to climb that hill.

Carlisle smiled faintly at her and gestured for her to continue on her way up. So she did it anyway. He followed her lead, keeping quiet though she longed for him to say something. The silence between them was burdensome and somehow frustratingly sad. The world around them was a gorgeous, sparkling landscape of shadows and fragrant night flora. They should have been bursting with intoxication, sharing their enchantment with each other. But they kept to themselves.

Occasionally, if she had the nerve, Esme glanced over her shoulder to see the quiet doctor behind her. He still stood tall, his weight carefully managed with each step he took in her wake. His hands were tucked within his pockets, his head tilted slightly to one side. And whenever he caught her quick little glimpses, he never failed to smile.

His face was almost always alight with that patient, pitying sort of smile. He looked upon her with the same compassionate, ridiculous calmness that he did with everyone else. And that was infuriating to her.

She wanted to be different to him.

Esme prayed that one day he would look at her differently than he looked at everyone else. And she prayed every day that Edward's poor head would find some relief from her foolish thoughts. It was just so difficult to keep her mind from wandering in that direction. Especially when every little thing the blond doctor did demanded hours upon hours of pointless pondering.

* * *

_**A/N: **__So Esme is beginning to feel some affections toward Carlisle... If you can let me know what you thought of this chapter, I would really appreciate it. :)_


	10. Patience and Acceptance

**Chapter 10:**

**Patience and Acceptance**

* * *

The astounding and limitless range of a vampire's abilities ensured that Esme had very little time with nothing new to do. In some sense, she was left with less responsibilities and no necessary tasks other than to feed herself when she needed blood, but all of this _time _she had in place of daily chores was a blessing for her insatiable curiosity. Even sitting in a quiet room with lights off and just listening to the sounds around her was an acceptable and even entertaining way to spend her time.

But Edward would only laugh at her for doing such things.

"_If you want to go outside, all you have to do is ask me to take you_," he would tell her.

As much as she hated imposing on his free time, he insisted that he would much rather give her something better to do. She sometimes worried that she was a chore to him; that his having to watch over her constantly made him into some sort of nanny. He said that if she ever dared to call him a nanny again, he _would _keep her locked inside for the rest of her days.

Edward liked to tease, but Esme was not blind to the genuine care and concern he held for her. He often went out of his way to make her happier when she was feeling upset or lonely. Underneath these hints of depression, though, it seemed the only cause to her discomfort was thirst. Edward's empathy for Esme's struggle helped her to cope immensely during the times when she most doubted herself.

He took her hunting during the day, leading her through the forest in a blur of pure instinct and animal direction. Esme was always shocked by the ease with which she could summon a deer to the ground with one finger. Her teeth were nestled in the throat before she could blink, and the blood was soothing her throat before she could purr. It was intoxicating and divine, despite the slight sting that lingered in her throat upon finishing it. She was satisfied for the time being, but there would always be that drive to have more. Perfecting her control was a challenge, but it grew more promising with every day.

"You're doing very well," Edward granted his approval as they headed back to the house together in the early evening. The wind whipping her hair seemed to echo his words, and she smiled to herself, proud of her long-earned accomplishments.

There was a tiny niche in Esme's mind that wondered how it would feel to have the doctor's approval as well. She vaguely imagined how he would have looked at her in the midst of the hunt, and how _he _would have looked while hunting by her side. She felt chilly when she thought of him participating in this gracefully gruesome act. Being a necessity for survival, she knew he had killed animals for blood countless times before. As disturbing as it was to imagine Doctor Cullen with his teeth buried in the hide of a defenseless animal, Esme discovered a burning urge to see the true image for herself.

Someday, she supposed, hunting with Carlisle would be unavoidable. And she dreaded it as greatly as she anticipated it.

She arrived in the yard of the estate before the dusk set in, with Edward quick on her heels. They bolted into the house, carelessly tracking mud on the stairs in their childish race, laughing their way through the halls.

"Want to see the best place in the house to watch the sunset?" he asked, grabbing hold of her hand before she could answer.

Expecting him to take her to some secret balcony or third floor window, she was shocked to watch him leap out the attic window onto the roof.

"Come out and see!" His face had never before looked so bright, so eager, so _young. _She could not resist him.

In her indestructible bare feet, Esme flitted effortlessly over the shingles to where Edward was perched against the chimney on the western wing of the house.

The horizon beyond the lake was a blanket of frightfully bright orange freckled by fluorescent rose clouds. The slender silhouettes of black spruce trees framed it on either side like a perfect painting. From anywhere lower it would be impossible to still see the sun, but from this height it was visible to the last moment before the numbing blue mist of twilight swept it away.

"I told you it was the best place to watch the sunset," Edward said as she came to sit beside him in a heap of cotton skirts.

"I should have known you wouldn't take me to any old window."

He chuckled.

"Is this something you do often? Climb onto roofs at night?" she inquired playfully.

"The first few times I came up through the chimney. Then I decided there must be a more sanitary way to do it," he joked.

She giggled. "Thank the Lord. I don't think I would have been very pleased if you'd tried to stuff me through the fireplace."

"I'd know better than to do that," he said all too seriously, and she grinned to herself.

As the sun lowered in the sky, the air around them began to change, the forest postively crawling with nocturnal creatures. The scent of the nightlife was aromatic, but more cloying than that of the daytime. It was mysterious and slow, creeping and seductive – a spicy bouquet of dark delights – deep and devilish.

Edward sighed heavily as the dark, inviting scents grew stronger. "If you want to go after them, we can," he offered.

Esme shook her head before she realized she was refusing the scent. "I'm not that thirsty."

He stared at her skeptically. "That's the first time you refused blood."

She stared back at him almost as blankly. "Is that normal?"

He shrugged. "Yes, I suppose. It came rather late for you, but it was bound to happen one of these days."

"Hmm."

He stood up then and dusted off his trousers. "We'd better get back inside soon or Carlisle will throw a fit when he comes back."

"You think he would disapprove of us frolicking on the roof?" she asked amusedly as she sprung to her feet.

"No," Edward laughed affectionately. "I don't think he would mind at all. I just meant he'd probably be in danger of hyperventilating if he didn't know where we were. He's very unstable that way, you see."

She cocked one eyebrow in light disapproval despite being aware of his teasing tone. He only grinned and offered her his arm to help in back in through the open window.

"You're sure you don't need to hunt?" Edward asked her as they sped back down the stairs.

"I thought you could read my thoughts."

"I _am_ reading them, and they're disturbingly unclear," he chuckled in uncertainty.

"I'm sure, Edward. Really, I'll be fine," she insisted.

He gave her an odd look as he stopped by the closet and shrugged into his brown corduroy jacket.

"Alright," he sighed with reluctance, thirsty enough now that he didn't bother arguing with her anymore. "Carlisle will be here in thirty seconds," he warned curtly before taking off out the back door.

Esme hastily began smoothing the flawless creases of her dress as if the sad action were instinct, worried that she might have missed a stray leaf or a smear of soot. She hadn't had the chance to look in the mirror a final time before the freshly oiled creak of the front door alerted her to the doctor's return.

Edward had overestimated.

"Good evening," Carlisle's voice echoed in the foyer. His greetings typically wore a tone of ease and contentment, but tonight she picked out a palpable strain in his lilt that made her uneasy.

"Good evening," she returned with the expected courtesy, glancing at his face in slight concern as she approached from the hall. His eyes were dim and distant, like a field of golden wheat caught beneath a storm cloud.

"Are you all right?"

The shallow lines of stress flickered over his forehead. His lips opened, but he did not speak for a moment, clearly hesitant on the matter.

He reluctantly found her inquisitive gaze and responded quietly as he removed his coat, "I lost a few patients this evening."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said automatically, overcome with the sudden urge to press her palm to his cheek.

"No, no. You mustn't be," he insisted in furrow-eyed distress, shaking his head almost dismissively. "It isn't as if it's a rare occurrence."

"Nevertheless, I imagine it must be difficult...especially in your case." She came slightly closer, drawn helplessly to him in his rare moment of vulnerability. "I _am_ sorry."

His eyes were almost contrite in their slow-burning glow as he stared down at her.

"Thank you," he accepted in a melancholy whisper.

Her hand again longed for that gentle collision with his cheek.

She bit her lip.

The doctor's glistening eyes turned up in confusion as he swiftly glanced around the front hall. "Where has Edward gone to?"

"Hunting," she answered succinctly. His eyes widened almost comically in an expression that was at best foreign for his face, and she quickly explained that she had not been abandoned as he thought. "Don't worry. He left when he heard you arriving."

Carlisle released a tense breath of relief. "Thank goodness – or I shall have had to berate him with enthusiasm – which is not often done, mind you."

She imagined not.

She just barely concealed a shy giggle as his eyes looked her over warmly, then he politely moved towards the parlor.

She should have taken that moment to flee from the site. She should have run away, not _followed _him like some mindless muse, clinging to him wherever he went.

But her feet had already planted her within the same room, and she could not turn back.

He drew back the curtains, and the sparse marine tint of twilight flooded the dark room. Though they could both see just as clearly in the absence of adequate light, there was still something mutually unsettling about being in the dark.

She gave a small chirp of surprise as he struck a match to light the candelabra over the mantle, and the tangy perfume of sulfur and smoke upon the air plucked at her nerves. Something about the alluring aroma brooked too many associations with intimacy...

"Do you not care for electric lighting?" she asked, her tone devoid of any humor or judgment. She was only curious as to why he seemed prone to lighting candles before turning on a lamp.

He chuckled in spite of himself as he moved to the console and lit a trio of small emerald votive glasses on its marble surface.

"Having lived for so many years without electricity, I suppose you could say that I have a helpless fondness for natural light," he explained with a sheepish tilt of his head. "I suppose it's a sorry waste that I've spent money on copper wiring when it is so rarely used."

Esme smiled to herself as he passed up the old oil lamp in favor of a single-wick candle by the window sill. "Not even oil lamps, then?"

He shook his head as he continued making his way around the room, the warm glow of the combined flames slowly filling the room in a way that fabricated wattage never could. "Not hardly. Always candles." His lip quirked absently as he blew out the blackened matchstick and struck a second one. "Something about them is...I don't know...holy."

Her eyes followed his figure without a blink as he rounded the rest of the room, crowning every candle with a bright little halo until he was nearly back by her side again, his citrusy scent embellished with a silken smokiness.

He spoke to her quietly as she watched him, asking her how her day had gone, and other such civilized necessities. Her voice, tamed to a mature silk from his venom, now matched his in its mesmerizing smoothness. As they exchanged words, the balance resonated back and forth in harmony – soft soprano for tender tenor, mellifluous and fluid. Like calligraphy made into sound.

And as she spoke more with him, Esme began to feel almost his equal.

When they reached a relative silence, his eyes sparkled cryptically, glancing every so often toward the window as he had been doing throughout their conversation.

"I have something I've been wanting to show you," he finally said, moving to collect a small, polished wooden box by the window. Esme followed hesitantly and watched as he turned to face her before opening the lid. Inside the box lay a neatly organized rainbow of oil pigments and five paintbrushes of varying sizes.

Her eyes widened like a child who had just been given a sackful of candy. "Oil paints."

"Edward tells me you have an interest in painting."

She tucked a curl of hair behind her ear, smiling sheepishly as she avoided his eyes. "Well, from what I can remember, I've always been fond of art."

"Then accept this as a gift," Carlisle offered, with a quiet sort of eagerness that made her heart quiver ever so slightly in her chest. He nudged the box toward her folded hands, encouraging her to take it, and the ache in her heart worsened as the smooth wooden edge made contact with her skin.

"I..." To refuse him would have been pointless, and not to mention pitiful. She had nothing to offer this man in return for anything he had given her, yet he continued to burden her with gifts against her will.

"I insist," he whispered with a pleading smile.

To accept this gift would make him happy. With that knowledge, Esme reluctantly accepted. Her fingers wrapped gingerly around the box as he closed the lid and let go.

"Thank you," she breathed, cradling the box in her hands. "But I have nothing on which to paint."

"Edward found an easel in the attic this morning," he explained with a smile, "And I have already ordered canvas fabric from town. I'll bring it back with me sometime this week."

"You didn't have to–"

"I insist," he repeated, with slightly more force than before.

She swallowed quietly as she stared fondly down at the box of paints in her hands. "Very well."

Feeling the mild weight of guilt creep into her belly, Esme sighed and finally allowed her gaze to meet his.

His face was unreadable as it tended to be, but now there was something exceptionally intense in his expression that shocked the guilt right out of her at first glance.

"Your eyes," his hushed accent murmured suddenly as he looked more closely at her face.

She blinked several times, slightly flustered as he stared forwardly at her, and desperately curious as to what could have caused such an odd remark.

"Hm?"

His brows lifted lightly and he smiled – a small, familiar sort of smile. "I'm sorry, it's just... Have you looked at them lately?"

"No, are they unwell?"

"Far from it." He shook his head with an enigmatic glint in his gaze.

Esme rushed toward the small oval wall mirror in excitement and stared at her reflection. Though at first glance her eyes would still be scarlet, there was a vividness about them that gave their depths a new, almost orange cast. As she bent in closer, she could make out the individual flecks of a blossoming brass, bedded inside her iris.

How Carlisle had even noticed such a tiny difference in such poor lighting was perplexing to her. Perhaps all doctors were prone to such details.

"Oh, my..." She touched her cheek faintly, marveling at the nearly insignificant change in her gaze from every angle in the mirror.

He chuckled pleasantly from behind her. "You see? You're making progress already."

He had given her similar words of encouragement before, but these words came with physical proof – evidence that she was making a difference, not only in her appearance, but more importantly in her behavior.

"Mhm." She looked down shyly at her feet for a few moments when she finally turned to face him.

"I'm very proud of you."

Esme's heart was mummified in a clean sort of warmth at his words. His soft praise was all she needed to hear, and suddenly she was sure success must be possible. If it was not, then she would _make it _possible. For him.

She moved quickly back to the fireplace where he stood. "How long will it be now?" she questioned him eagerly, hoping for a less vague response this time.

Carlisle averted his eyes uneasily, absently rubbing the back of his neck as he chose the right words. "If you remain on this path – and I have confidence that you will – then it should be fairly eight months or so before your eyes will have made the full transition."

Her heart sank like a stone in the lake. "Eight months?"

"No disappointment, now." The gentle warning came with a light prod to her chin from his two forefingers. "You're doing quite well for such an early stage."

"I suppose it has been less difficult lately," she mused humbly. "In fact, just this evening I was outside with Edward, and—"

She paused, uncertain as to whether or not it would be wise to mention her escapade on the roof.

Carlisle simply stared at her, his eyes a sun-shaming yellow, with the soft hints of a confused smile on his face. She wrung her hands and swallowed hard before continuing.

"Well, it was the first time I was able to ignore the thirst even with the scent of blood in the air."

"That's quite an improvement." He smiled politely before turning to the window. "You seem to enjoy being outside. I'm sorry that you've not been able to be out as much as you like."

"Edward is always willing to watch me."

Carlisle's expression grew mildly regretful. "Soon you won't need to worry about any of that," he assured. "You're doing better every day."

She wanted to smile, but there was still doubt in her mind. "It is only with the scent of passing humans; I can't seem to...hold myself together."

He nodded in understanding. "Yes, I'm afraid that will be particularly... _distressing_ to you for some time."

"I need to know, honestly, Doctor. When can I expect it to improve?" She wondered if she sounded like one of his patients, asking when her life-threatening illness would let up.

His eyes dimmed, and look of reluctance colored his face. "I regret to say that there is no definitive moment when it simply fades away."

The dull teeth of disappointment chewed at her hope, snuffing out the blue-born flame of her inspiration.

"Then how can I be expected to one day walk among people again as you and Edward do?"

He smirked softly and she flinched, worrying she had been too presumptuous. "Well, now, Esme, it is not without often painful efforts that we manage to mingle with humans." His tone lightened a bit when he noticed the chagrin in her expression. "I wish it _were_ that simple."

Her hopes sunk in a bitter brew within her gut. If it was not simple for Carlisle, then it would be simple for no one. She hung her head.

He added gently, "It helps to adjust slowly over time, but I must be honest with you in saying that it never does dissipate entirely."

"Do you still have trouble? At the hospital?" she asked tentatively, hoping he would not take offense to the forwardness of her question.

To her surprise he nodded his head. "There have been times when it's been almost too difficult for me to continue working. In fact..."

He looked for a moment as though he was pondering whether it was acceptable to say what he wanted to say, then with a sigh he continued.

"There was this boy once – he couldn't have been more than six years of age. I was assigned to treat him some several years ago. He had cut his wrist." He motioned with one finger across the inside of his wrist and frowned. "His blood was everywhere...it was..." He swallowed and his eyes darkened at the memory. "Well, I'd never had such trouble with the craving before, and I was not certain I could control myself. For the boy's own safety, I left."

She blinked in slight disbelief. "You mean you never treated him?"

"I couldn't. It was too dangerous," he said softly. "I've always felt terribly guilty for abandoning him. And to make matters worse, I'd caught the distinct scent of rust in his blood. I fear he may have developed Tetanus, and his father would not have known until it was too late."

Esme cringed with pity. However perfect he may have seemed, Doctor Cullen was as prone to temptation as every other vampire. Her stomach churned unpleasantly at the thought, and what it meant for her own hopes to succeed in the art of resisting.

"Oh, my," she whispered solemnly. "That's awful."

He sighed melodiously as he ran a hand through his blond hair. "It is to be expected in my occupation." He turned to her with a redeeming smile. "But it is still far too early for you to worry about such things. Edward and I are here for you in the event that any human might pass."

She smiled back reluctantly. "I'm always hoping the next time will be slightly better – and in a way _it is_ – but I'm never as controlled as I wish I could be."

He tilted his head, considering her explanation. "That may not be cause for discouragement. As I've said before, I for one do not believe the art of control is ever fully mastered." He rested one hand on the mantel and gazed distantly into the flickering candle flames. "Like the inevitable loss of my patients, it is something that happens consistently, yet we never truly learn to be unaffected by it. We simply learn to accept it."

"_Patience and acceptance_," she murmured half to herself, as if noting a list.

"Oh, dear. I fear I've made myself into little more than a preacher—"

"No, not at all! I mean, well..." She breathed deeply, shaking her head to dismiss her stuttering. "You've always given me guidance when I've needed it. I thank you." She glanced up at him, willing him to see the genuineness in her words.

The small smile that graced his lips was almost sad, but his warm eyes were lit with something akin to gratefulness.

"Esme, I want you to know that your company means a great deal to me. Had I returned to an empty house after a rather unfortunate shift… well, the evening would have been considerably less pleasant. You should know that even the simplest of your condolences are of comfort to me. And for that I must thank _you_."

She could think of nothing to say in response to him, slightly stunned that she had been a source of comfort to _him _when she had always looked upon him as the giver and herself as the taker. Perhaps they really did need one another in their own ways.

Somewhere in the core of his intense gaze, Esme found it too difficult to maintain contact for any longer. With a shy smile she let her eyes instead settle somewhere in the center of his chest, somehow feeling strangely breathless.

"Think nothing of it...Carlisle."

* * *

_**A/N:**__ I really liked writing this chapter because it shows the beginnings of Carlisle and Esme in their "getting to know you" stage. I wanted to show that something very simple between them could convey a deeper appreciation for each other, though they may not recognize the extent of their feelings just yet. Let me know if you liked it. :)_


	11. The Wishing Well

**Chapter 11:**

**The Wishing Well**

* * *

The lake that lay just beyond the Chartercrest property was a stunning landscape that Esme found more than tempting to paint multiple times during each hour of the day. With fingers that rivaled the speediness of a hummingbird's wings and an eye that would ensure impressionism would never be her signature style again, she had composed an impressive series of thirty unframed canvases in just several days, all of which emphasized the many beauties of the backyard lake.

On the clearest days, she would sit on the library balcony with her easel and paint for hours. The presumptuous chime of the grandfather clock was never her reason for going back inside – the only thing that could keep her from remaining outdoors forever was the stubborn scarlet scent that soiled the air.

Of course, there was always an available escort to help with that.

Esme would usually insist that Edward take her outdoors, not wanting to keep the doctor from his pressing responsibilities. But her insistence was thrown back and forth like a wayward breeze. In a casual bout of exchanged glances and meaningful throat clearings, Carlisle had ended up escorting her down to the lake that morning instead of Edward.

She kept ahead of him as she normally did, subconsciously avoiding any direct interaction until the moment came when it was unavoidable. They were so rarely ever alone together that it proved a nuisance to her nerves to be in his company without Edward as her trustworthy buffer.

The melancholy strains of _Fantasie Impromptu_ from Edward's piano in the house grew softer and softer behind her as she darted through the long grass, saturated with wildflowers. She reached the glittering green dust that marked the shore of the lake and paused, waiting for Carlisle to approach her from behind, her false heart falsely pounding with every false step he took closer to where she stood.

The stifling fragrance of primrose floated around her like a permeable cloud of perfume, following her however further away from him she tried to step. She tried to remain ignorant of his presence, swallowing the scenic serenity that surrounded her.

Quite a few of the cherry trees that lined the lake had reached the fullest bloom of the season. They looked like puffy pink princesses amongst stately evergreens and shimmering jade willows. Their blossoms grew in thick clumps, each flower looking heavy and burdensome as it hung on the twig. They were fascinating plants, almost like something out of a dream.

A smattering of sundrops danced over the deep green grass – sometimes graceful, other times erratic. Every fluorescent star of petals that sprouted in the ground was a happy accident. The grainy perfection in the bark of an aged tree was like fine brown embroidery. The entire scene was like a walk-through tapestry – a cocktail of colors and textures so frightfully penetrating, that she became an integral part of the scene itself. And once she was there, she was unable to escape. She was sewn into that tapestry.

The grand golden richness of summer was just threatening to overtake the peaches-and-cream elegance of the springtime. The shore of a lake was the finest place for the plants to play, the friction creating an exotic, balmy, cypress-like feel to the area. Their region was not utterly temperate, but it felt that way when the seasons misbehaved.

No matter how vehemently Esme tried to convince herself or the birds that sung overhead otherwise, the proper term for their precise setting in that lucky moment was, naturally, romantic.

She dawdled ahead of Carlisle, still fighting the urge to turn around, however tempting the image of his face in the sun might have been to see.

"Has Edward shown you the lake before?" he asked softly from not very far behind her.

"Not this...close," she said as she inched slightly away from his exquisitely engaging presence.

She panicked with the mild wave of his candied scent as it speared through the flowers to burn her with purposeful force.

"Does it have a name?" she asked, flustered, as she weaved strategically through the blossom-choked trees, out of his sight.

"I beg your pardon?" he called, his voice positively polished by politeness.

"The lake, I mean," she clarified hastily.

"I've heard many of the natives call it 'Lake Cordial.'"

Esme felt rather flush as several considerable meanings of the word made place in her mind. She should not have had to hear him say it in that God-glorious accent either.

"What an...odd name for a lake," she remarked safely.

The delicate sound of Carlisle's light laughter did anything but echo in the confinement of the heavily flowered foliage.

"Yes, I suppose it is."

Unable to deter the temptation any longer, she glanced back through the trees to where he was still following slowly. Her glimpse of him was limited by swaying curtains of willow branches and fluttering petals, but the predictable burst of blond was quite conspicuous, even as his face was obscured. The flattering mauve-gray color of his sweater-vest complemented the blossoms hilariously well.

His hand was raised in a lingering flourish as he walked, gently brushing the branches out of his way. His face caught a determined ray of golden sunlight, and the sparkling reflections frolicked across the distance between them like tiny pink lanterns, distracting her from her path.

She stepped accidentally into a patch of mint, and the stinging scent of the herb wafted up to her in overpowering tides, sure to stick on the soles of her feet for the rest of the day.

With an irritated sigh, she hopped strategically over the green patches to avoid them until she reached the grass. Her first step was an unexpected surprise as the sensitive sole of her foot collided with a downy plot of Queen Anne's Lace.

She let out a helpless giggle at the tickling sensation, jerking her foot back before she could fall face-first into the flower bed. Her hands gripped the branch of the tree above her to steady herself as she regained her footing in the grass.

"...Esme?" Carlisle's voice inquired curiously from behind the bushy veils of flowers.

She sucked in an anxious breath, anticipating some kind of admonishment for her sudden outburst.

"Hm?"

"...Are you not wearing shoes?" He did not sound angry. On the contrary, he sounded amused and even slightly intrigued.

If she could blush, her cheeks would have shamed the cherry blossoms.

"Well...no."

He sighed colorfully. "Oh, dear."

She smiled impishly to herself, taking a few steps backwards as his figure drew nearer.

She feared she would never know precisely what this mysterious pulsing was, buried deep within her chest. It could not have been her heart, but there was a tangible energy in its vacant vicinity which refused to give her a moment's peace when the doctor was around.

Carlisle pulled the flowers away and stepped through the gangly garlands, smiling wryly as his eyes immediately found her fidgeting feet.

His gaze was brighter than tangerine, reflecting the pink of the blossoms, and as he looked up at her, she found herself wishing dearly for a Geisha's fan which she could draw conveniently across her face.

His cheeks dimpled tightly as he held back laughter, and he was suddenly bent at the waist, untying his own polished black shoes. Her jaw dropped slightly.

"Doctor...?"

"I suppose, as a gentleman, I'm to offer you _my _shoes."

"What?"

"I'm only teasing you." He glanced up with an apologetic smirk.

She laughed nervously as he stepped out of both shoes, then leaned against the tree to swiftly pull down his socks.

He had beautiful feet.

"That _is _much nicer," he said as he tossed his shoes aside, and they were lost in the mounds of wildflowers. "I should wear shoes less often."

Esme returned the doctor's amiable smile, appreciative of his attempts to warm up to her, but still irreversibly shy nonetheless.

A soft breeze blew flirtatiously through the trees, causing the pale pink petals to rain down over them. She bit down on her lip to hold back a giggle when she noticed the pair of petals that had landed in his hair, until another breeze innocently cleared them away. She smiled when she saw that a few petals still clung to the shoulders of his sweater, hoping he did not notice her stare.

Esme quickly averted her eyes toward the water, choosing to admire the floating lily pads instead.

"I don't remember ever being near a body of water so vast before," she remarked absently, having a strange need to speak the thought out loud.

"Have you never been to the ocean?" Carlisle asked, slightly more enthused by her willingness to talk.

"Heavens, no. At least, I don't _remember_ being there..." she trailed in uncertainty. Her hands twisted awkwardly against her belly as she stared into the distance. "I doubt I ever was. I believe I was rather sheltered."

"Hm." He stepped closer to the shore of the lake, his bare feet sinking slightly in the marshy grass.

"I would give anything to see the ocean, though," she said hopefully, watching him carefully out of the corner of her eye.

"You have many years ahead of you yet to fill. One day you might find yourself looking out at the Atlantic like this." He gestured to the water in front of them with a genuine smile.

She sighed wistfully. "I do hope so."

He tilted his chin up and gazed at her with deep consideration for a moment, still smiling. "I never would have guessed you had such a passion for the sea, Esme."

She shrugged noncommittally, slightly concerned that she had given her silly aspirations away too soon. "I love all of nature, truly. But the sea is something that was never within my reach."

"Ah, yes." He smirked ironically as he dipped his marble toes into the water, making tiny ripples. "We desire what we fear we cannot have – a curse even immortals must face."

Esme noticed something then as she watched Carlisle with his bare feet, wading in the shallow shores of the lake with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his hair ruffled by the wind, that he was so much less formal, so much _younger _than she had always envisioned him before. It conflicted in strange and severe ways with the somber wisdom of his deep, mellow voice and intelligent eyes.

"I'm not sure I would go so far as to call that a _curse_," she admitted freely, somehow more at ease with this aesthetically disheveled image of him.

His eyes furrowed in thought as he looked back at her. "No, I suppose that _is_ too strong a word."

She blinked speechlessly at him for a long moment, smiling shamelessly at the sheer thanks-to-God-worthy beauty of his face as he stared back at her. He grinned generously, an errant dimple glinting in the curve of his cheek.

The flowers were suddenly softer than whipped meringue beneath her feet.

He raised both eyebrows lightly. "Is something amusing?"

"No, nothing," she shrugged, still smiling.

"Why are you staring at my feet?"

She lifted her gaze self-consciously and quickly met his eyes.

"Forgive me, but it isn't every day I see a doctor walking about barefoot in a lake."

His shoulders shook with soft laughter as he stared down at his own feet. "It isn't every day that I _do _walk about barefoot in the lake."

"I'm surprised," she said forwardly, "Someone with an eternity ought to find at least a moment to take his shoes off and spend some time outside."

He pursed his lips, and his eyebrows came together in an expression of puzzled amusement. She only blinked back at him innocently.

"You're nothing like Edward was as a newborn," he remarked suddenly.

"No?"

"No, you're much more...optimistic?"

"I see." She took it as a compliment.

He raised his eyes with a more relaxed smile, and she moved shyly closer to where he stood.

"Oh!" she gasped as she stepped blindly into the water.

"What is it?"

"The water is warmer than I expected."

He gave a succinct little laugh and shook his head. "Did you expect anything to be colder than your feet?"

Of course not. Her feet were just barely warmer than ice.

She looked down sheepishly as she felt his eyes on her, trying to concentrate on something other than the proximity of their bare feet under the shallow surface of the shore. She should not have been at ease with this; being so casual around this man whom she still knew so little about. They could have been perfect strangers had they never met that one night in Columbus, yet here they were, wading in a beautiful lake in Wisconsin, both vampires, both immortal. It made no sense, and it frightened her.

Absently, her feet began to retreat from the gentle waves, and she backed slowly out of the water until she was safe on dry land.

Carlisle's brow furrowed as he became aware of her uneasiness. "Are you all right?"

"Mmhm." Her eyes flickered suggestively toward the hill behind them as she contemplated leaving. Before she had even made her decision, her feet were already carrying her up that hill.

"Where are you going now?" he asked, his voice further softened in helpless confusion.

"Just... up to the gardens," she made up as she dashed aimlessly back towards the house.

"Wh—"

She swiftly scaled the slope of the extensive yard before he could utter one word in question.

"It is terribly difficult to keep you in one place for very long!" She heard him call faintly from the bottom of the hill.

Esme sighed and slowed to a stop, waiting for Carlisle to catch up to her. It baffled her why he always insisted on walking at a human's pace, as if vampire speed were abusive to his body, as if it was something to be ashamed of. He treated many vampire traits as though they were something to be ashamed of.

He met her at the top of the hill, and she bit her lip as he looked her over, irrationally breathless. She looked at him blankly for a long moment as he stared back at her with confused eyes, and his skin gleamed like chalcedony under the sun, frightfully distracting. Once again, the heaviness of his gaze was too much to bear, and she took off toward the gardens with a light-footed sprint.

"Esme... Esme! Slow down now!" he called, laughing in a mildly frustrated manner. She was powerless to refuse his voice when he called after her like that.

Again, she forced herself to slow as soon as she reached the garden gate. The precise little diamonds embedded in his skin nearly blinded her as he reached her side, smiling as though in a kind of daze.

"Walk with me for a while," he offered genially.

She fell compliantly into his stride, walking alongside him as he led her over the stone path that weaved through the elaborate gardens.

Being so close to Carlisle gave her a terribly uneasy feeling, yet some part of her found his presence to be the deepest source of comfort she had ever known. Everything about him was hopelessly contradictory. It made her dizzy.

"There, you see? You don't need to run everywhere," he teased.

She winced out of his sight and shook her head in chagrin. "I'm sorry. It's almost more natural to me than walking is."

"I understand." He smiled complacently and discreetly glanced down at his pocket watch.

"When are you leaving for the hospital?" she asked.

He turned his gaze heavenward with a forlorn sigh. "It's unlikely I'll be leaving at all today, so long as the clouds refuse to come in."

"Oh, of course."

Even in an emergency, Carlisle could never risk being seen in the sunlight. That was a shame, for his patients surely would have been cured of all their ailments had they the privilege to witness the sight of their doctor in the sun.

Esme slowed down a bit, realizing that her pace had begun to accelerate slightly, and he chuckled from behind her. While she waited for him to reach her, she stopped to look over the marble statuary with a critical eye, wondering if she would ever have the chance to cure them of their saddened state.

"Do you think there's any way to restore these?" she asked quietly as she ran a careful finger over the ivy-covered cheek of a cherub with chipped wings.

Carlisle stood back with his hands on his hips and cocked his head in consideration. "Doubtful, but not impossible."

Esme drew out a sigh as she turned to the next statue of a woman carrying a vase on her shoulder. Each rendered fold of the statue's robe was cracked and worn, wearing away the lifelike quality of the sculpted body.

"It's a shame this garden has been neglected for so many years. I imagine it was very beautiful once," she said.

Carlisle smiled sadly, looking around at the overgrowth and the haunting faces of the marble figures buried beneath it. "Yes, it must have been." His smile grew fond as his gaze grew distant. "It reminds me of Florence."

"I've seen photographs of Florence before, I think." She squinted, trying to recapture the fuzzy memory.

He looked happily surprised. "Really?"

"Yes. In an art history portfolio."

His eyes narrowed lightly. "Odd that you would recall such an obscure memory, don't you think?"

"No, not really," she admitted thoughtfully.

"Oh?"

"I mean it isn't very obscure. I've always been interested in art."

"Yes, the scent of linseed oil and turpentine lingering in the upstairs hallway can attest to that," he teased light-heartedly.

She smoothed her hair against one side of her face so that he could not see her embarrassed smile.

"I'd never been able to paint very much before, but now it's so easy. I can paint anything I've seen without even needing it in front of me," she said, still in awe over her flawless catalogue of memorized images.

"Well, you know I'm more than happy to accommodate your interests by any means necessary," he reminded amiably.

She smiled back at him in appreciation, while inside she was reasonably mortified at being the cause for him to spend any amount of money to appease her. "Thank you."

He bowed his head ever so slightly in acknowledgement as they approached the central fountain. It had no peaceful trickling to offer as ambience; its dull tiled surfaces were made ill by a slimy layer of algae, yet it still managed to look beautiful in its distress. On its crest was a small cherub on tiptoes, tainted by an acidic mint-colored rust. The tiles on the inside of each bowl were a brilliant ultramarine beneath the grime, decorated with exquisite etchings of symmetric eight-point stars. Esme could see the fountain quite differently in her head, sparkling clean and filled with running water, all lit up under the twilight. It was an enchanting vision in her imagination.

"You have that faraway look on your face again." Carlisle gently pulled her from her reverie.

"Oh, I was just daydreaming."

"Is this a hobby of yours?"

She smiled wryly at him, wondering why she had never before noticed his charmingly modest wit. He smiled back expectantly, and she shrugged. "Has been for some time now."

He bit his lower lip in good humor, but did not respond.

She stepped over a few broken stones in the path, carefully bypassing the rather risqué sculpture of a couple entwined in an erotic embrace. Their bodies were, thankfully, concealed by an ironic twisting of rose vines that happened to bloom more abundantly over their laps than anywhere else. She didn't bother looking back to see if Carlisle had thought the particular piece of art worthy of appraisal. She hoped it was not too suspicious that she had taken the time to look over every other statue in the immediate area but conveniently skipped over that last one.

His footsteps were considerably steady behind her, so she could only guess that he had bypassed the provocative pair just as swiftly.

Esme hastened her pace as she approached the gated entry to the shadowy hedge maze at the end of the court. She had wanted to explore it for some time now but had never been presumptuous enough to ask.

Carlisle watched her as she gripped the iron bars of the gate and pressed her forehead against it to peer inside.

"Have you gone through this hedge maze yet?" She realized, belatedly, that it must have been an awfully stupid question for someone who had lived for at least a year on this property.

"Yes, too many times," he confessed airily. "I'm rather embarrassed to admit the actual number."

"I wonder if there's anything in the center..." Esme mused out loud.

"Oh, there's an old well at the center. Nothing interesting," he said in a dismissively dull tone that only heightened her intrigue.

"I wonder if I might go inside, just to see for myself if—"

"My, my. You're a very curious woman, aren't you, Esme?" He chuckled good-naturedly, cocking his head to one side as she paused by the entrance.

"Curious may be an understatement, Doctor." She smirked shyly.

He frowned at the title. "Please, call me—"

"I'd like to go inside," she interrupted before he could say his name. It made her unreasonably flustered. "…If that's alright."

"Yes, fine," he acquiesced with a wave of his hand. "But please come out the same way you went in."

"Thank you." She didn't bother looking back at him before she darted behind the high wall of shrubbery and breathed a sigh of relief.

It was almost too simple for Esme to find her way to the center of the maze. It was odd having such a keen sense of direction, despite having been dismal at finding her way as a human, even with a compass. She wandered through the tiny central courtyard, up the shallow steps to the well and peered down over the edge. It was dry and not very deep, and there was no bucket to fill on the frayed old rope. She looked around for something to toss in for a wish, but all she could find were a few flat stones and small flowers. She was not about to ask the doctor for spare coins, so she settled for what she had.

She sat herself gingerly on the edge of the stone well, and patiently plucked the petals from a daisy, watching them float gracefully down into the darkness. When she had stripped the flower bare, she made a wish that would never come true and tossed the stem down too.

Out of curiosity, she peered further over the edge to see where they all had landed. That was when her eye caught the faint copper glimmer of a single coin at the bottom of the well.

Someone had already made a wish.

* * *

_**A/N**__: Any guesses as to who could have thrown the coin into the well? :)_

_This was another chapter I really enjoyed writing. Carlisle and Esme, though still somewhat shy around each other, are showing a subtly flirtatious edge to their behavior._

_This is also the chapter which will set off several private jokes between them that will show up later on in the story. (The bare feet, "Lake Cordial", weeping willow trees, the garden statues, etc...) Read on to see if you can pick up on them in the later chapters! And review if you enjoyed the chapter, please. :)_


	12. Feast and Submission

**Chapter 12:**

**Feast and Submission**

* * *

_To pretend is to fool another. Never by pretending can one fool oneself._

She read it twice, even though she had locked it to memory the first time her eyes had passed over the words. The second time over, it made all the less sense to her. Esme had to disagree with this. The lovely printed script on a musty page could not trick her into believing it was impossible to fool herself.

Esme had little insight to herself since her change. She was, by all accounts, the same woman she was before, but memory did not allow her to make the connection to her former self. What dreams had she had when she was still a human? What was in her heart and soul? Esme wanted to believe her old self was still there, buried inside the shell of a snow-skinned beauty...but perhaps she wasn't. Perhaps she was just like the dust at the bottom of a strainer, the insignificant scraps left over from something that was once important.

For Esme, not pretending was the same as pretending. Her behavior was not unnatural, but it was somewhat inexplicable.

For instance, she took care not to look at Carlisle when he entered the room. It was a semi-conscious effort that quickly turned conscious. She didn't know why she felt the need to hide her eyes from his, but it was simply done out of instinct. Her heart begged her not to seek eye contact with the doctor.

He was nothing but kind to her, as was expected, and she was nothing but kind to him in return. Their relationship, if it could even be named so, was not a solid entity. It possessed fountain in place of foundation. It was always stirring, changing – a shy social liquid for them to swim within. While _he _was a brilliant swimmer, she was merely treading water.

Neither Carlisle nor Edward dared force Esme into being social. Sometimes she just did not feel like having a conversation, and that was understood. There was some comfort in knowing that they had both once been where she was now. They would see her through the highs and lows of these unsettling times of her rebirth. But sometimes she could sense that they _wanted _her to try harder to break her insecurity. Most especially Carlisle. He pushed her without pushing. He was distant and sensitive and all the things she wished he wouldn't be because they made her want to follow his every step.

The _pushing _was something that had always made Esme uneasy. Carlisle gave the impression that he would shy away from force of any sort, but really he was a manipulative and twisted influence beneath it. He used his distance to create a clever trap for her to come to him. Slowly, softly, she was ensnared – and it was always her own fault for falling.

Esme had always known there would come a time when Edward would not be present, and the doctor would have to accompany her into the forest in search of blood. The first time she found herself in said situation, she had denied her thirst in order to avoid it. And it was not such an easy thing to deny, especially when Carlisle was sugaring her with insistence.

It was not even her own fear of humiliation that had discouraged her from going with him, although that always had a small part in her decisions. She was not afraid of him seeing her with blood upon her lips; she was afraid of seeing _him _that way. With his precise little lips crushed passionately into the neck of some poor creature, the burnt caramel of his gaze diving into blackness before rising with the sun as he drained the blood with experienced incisors. She thought of what feral sounds he might have uttered, what losing his harness of impeccable control might have done to him. Mostly, she wondered if she could even handle seeing that...

Occasionally she permitted herself the imaginary scenario in her mind, thinking how preposterous it would have been to see the refined doctor in such a state. Frankly, it horrified her to even imagine such things. Carlisle was too pure, too human to really be this way. She tried to convince herself that he really _was _some odd breed of vampire – some non-animalistic variation, perhaps even a different species entirely.

Esme went for days, ignoring the private fire in her throat, positively daunted at the idea of participating in such a vicious activity while the doctor was in her presence. But she could only hold off on the inevitability for so long before it became inescapable.

On Saturday mornings, Edward would go into town to restock on the human necessities that were only needed to soothe suspicions. Carlisle never worked on the weekends unless he had taken a house call. It was impossible for Esme to ignore the fact that she and Carlisle were alone in the house, but even more nerve-wracking was the dangerous intensity of her long-neglected thirst. She stood, waist deep in denial, with the curtains curled over her mouth and nose as she looked out the window with wistful wishes. She tingled for the blood, more sensitive and on-edge than ever. An entire week without blood for a newborn was a challenge, and she was pushing her limits as it was. By Saturday afternoon there was no choice; she _had _to hunt. She had to hunt _with_ _him._

Maybe it had been some unconscious intention, pacing the halls wherever his scent led her. She was baiting herself for him, awaiting her coy capture willingly. He abandoned whatever importance his attentions seized for her, swathing her with that timbre of pity and urgency.

"Your eyes are too dark, Esme," he said in a strained voice as he passed her in the hall. "I understand that you wish to rush your progress, but denying yourself for so long will not help."

It was so perfect, the ways in which he misunderstood her motives for prolonging it.

"I just thought that if I waited long enough, I would grow used to the feeling," she played along, lingering on the steps as though prepared to dart back upstairs to her room, to her safety. She was suddenly made all too aware of the position she had unintentionally constructed for herself. She was caged, cornered, locked into what she knew was unavoidable, and he was still insisting…

"It isn't wise to test yourself," Carlisle countered in a whisper, his warm eyes begging her.

Silence.

"Please, Esme. You've waited long enough. I must take you right now."

If there had been any connotative undertones to what he said then, she had only noticed them in the deepest, most sinful part of her mind. Perhaps that was what made the unease in the pit of her stomach feel so awkwardly pleasant.

She nodded reluctantly and he rushed to the door at once. He held it open for her then led her swiftly towards the mouth of the forest. As soon as Carlisle began to run, Esme was dumbfounded as to why she had ever been foolish enough to turn down his offers before.

She had been given the chance to see him in such a bewildering state.

The fear she suspected he had regarding his own abilities was no longer there. Not here. Not now.

One step into that forest, and he was a wild angel, defying the forces of nature with a viscosity that rivaled air itself. His body was nothing but a flash of solid colors striking the air as he ran alongside her.

The witchy hands of tree branches snagged at his clothes, trying so vainly to disrupt his run. The wind that sailed through the empty air grasped desperately at his figure as he pierced straight through it, but it never caught him. Every fall of his foot made the earth tremble; every unfortunate particle that hovered in his path was reduced to vapor as he passed through with impossible speed.

Finding Carlisle considerably slower than Edward, Esme held back with effort so that she would stay in sync with him and not leave his sight completely. It was not so frustrating to slow her pace when it meant she could watch his every move.

And watch him she did.

Far too often, with far too much interest.

But it wasn't her fault that he was so fascinating.

It was all part of this disturbing ritual they called the hunt. When the body was abandoned and fueled solely on its sensual capabilities. And the driving force behind this psychotic spiral was the spell-binding perfume of blood that tainted Mother Nature's warm breath in the depths of the forest.

Like a fair scarlet princess held captive in the darkness, they searched for it, fought for it, killed for it.

Even _he _lost himself to that scent.

She was smitten by his grace as he made a fool of Newton's laws, looking sickeningly dashing in those charcoal leather boots that nearly reached his knees.

She was demurely distracted by the reserved growl of warning that blossomed from the back of his throat just before he pounced.

And she swore her long lost pulse resurrected for one fleeting instant, the first time his lips latched possessively onto the neck of a submissive doe.

Because if she was being brutally honest, it was so thrilling to watch such a kind and gentle man submit to a fleeting façade of vicious carnality. He was a poised and placid predator. A soft and sober sadist.

Esme snatched her own prey from its last leap of desperation and brought it crashing down beneath her weight on the damp forest floor. It writhed desperately for a few seconds under her fierce grip, its numb black eyes glassy with terror. She stared at the deer's innocent face with a curious intensity, as she had always done before she dove in to drink. Its eyes stared blankly back at her, and there was a sinful fascination in that stare shared between the dominator and the submissive. The tension Esme felt facing her prey a final time before taking its life was often as thrilling as the drink that followed.

Before she could so much as bend her head forward, the neck of the pleading-eyed creature was snapped sharply in half with a sickening _crack, _echoing throughout the forest. In an instant, its eyes were emptied of their listless black energy. It was dead.

_"Do not let her suffer."_

She heard her angel begging over her shoulder, his breath further sweetened by the blood he had already consumed. A pang within her heart forced her to face him with guilt-laden eyes. There was a chilling sternness to Carlisle's inherently soft golden gaze as he released the neck of the animal and rose to his feet.

Esme stilled for a moment, in perfect shock that he had reprimanded her for something she had never once considered cruel. But now that he had brought it to light, it seemed so very reprehensible. Edward had never made the effort to ensure that his prey did not suffer in the hunt, and so Esme had followed his example. She should have known the doctor would find sin in something so instinctive. Lord, he had not even referred to the dying doe as an _'it' _– he called it _'her'..._

Esme bowed her head in apologetic shame for a moment as Carlisle settled on his knee beside the deer he had killed for himself. He was lovingly swift in snapping its neck, his hands steady with the skill acquired after years and years of practice.

Esme's unsteady hands tried not to feel the soft coat of fur, or the warmth that was slowly seeping from her kill as she gripped the deer's neck and lifted it to her mouth. But even as she split the hide and tore the vein, her eyes were peering up at her elegant counterpart, forever famished for the feast that had nothing to do with the thirst in her permanently parched throat.

She waited for the moment when he would catch her staring, and their eyes met for a shy slice of a second before they averted their guilty gazes. The sparkling chills that swept up her spine like chords on a harp were arguably more delicious than the blood itself.

She shut her eyes tightly to keep from looking back and promised herself she would only listen. But the soft purrs of contentment that sounded from his chest as he drank made her realize that listening was not an option either.

In fact Esme forbade herself from engaging in any of her senses while in Carlisle's presence during the hunt.

They slaughtered an unhealthy percentage of the forest that morning. Esme was surprised to find that the doctor was just as thirsty as she had been, or perhaps he only continued to hunt just to spare her the unease of feeling greedy. After all, it was _only_ _necessary _that he follow her everywhere she went.

She always finished before him, even if she made a conscious effort to take her prey at a sluggish pace. He was a slow drinker. A patient drinker.

He was patient with everything. Even the dead creatures he fed upon.

She leaned against the bark of a tree and watched him drain the last of the blood, with her hands behind her back so that he would not see the ruby smears that stained them.

His hands always came out clean. There was never a speck of soil, nor drop of blood to be seen in the palms of this meticulous surgeon. Not a single stain to mar the sheer buttermilk melanin of his skin.

It seemed Carlisle was always clean.

Esme, it seemed, was always a mess. The hem of her skirt was tattered by jagged branches and thorns from her run, anything white was a washed out pink from the blood that spattered haphazardly as she plucked at her prey. Her fair brown locks were made almost beast-like by the wind whipping past her as she sprinted.

Yet Carlisle survived the hunt without a single hair out of place, his shirt tucked neatly within the confines of his waistband, the tie about his neck never lopsided. His eyes were like lemon-colored crystals, startlingly clear and sated after feeding. Esme felt ashamed to look at him for a while, knowing her eyes would never be as bright. But his eyes were so beautiful it made her just as miserable to look away.

It was mildly infuriating to her that he should be so consistently perfect. Yet she couldn't help but admire him and adore him ruthlessly for it, in the silent safety of her own mind.

He was always kind to her, never making any mentions of her glaring dishevelment, even as he himself could have emerged from the forest perfectly prepared to merge with the rest of high society.

He made her feel almost comfortable, chasing away her shame with the simplest of gestures. Anything he did, no matter how insignificant it might have seemed, put her at ease and made her feel cared for. She would have argued that she did not deserve such treatment, but he would only retaliate with the same gallant affection. It was just in his nature.

It did not matter that he had just slaughtered these animals and fed on their blood right before her eyes. He was still the same doctor, the same man beneath it all. This had changed nothing as she had feared. This was bearable. This was…pleasant.

"Does it ever grow tiring? Running like this?" she asked him as they dashed through the forest beside each other on their way home.

"Physically?" His voice was muffled from their speed, but never unclear in her ears.

"No, just... I suppose it loses its novelty at some point?" she guessed, glancing over at him as he began to slow down behind her.

Esme harnessed her own grand momentum with effort and veered back to fall into sync with Carlisle's leisurely pace. He looked thoughtfully at her for a few moments as she skipped lightly ahead of him, and suddenly he grinned – a youthful grin that made his dimples flicker and teeth twinkle like tiny stars.

"It is entirely up to you if any of this loses its novelty," he told her.

She smiled back at him, quite pleased with the idea that she could be forever in awe of her abilities if she chose to be.

"Has it lost its novelty for you?" she questioned curiously.

He gazed at her thoughtfully for a moment, then there was a glitter to his eyes as his smile broadened almost mischievously. "Do you know how long I have been a vampire?"

She shook her head, anticipating that he was going to reveal his true age to her, but he merely turned his head away with a roguish smirk that looked as though it had been stolen straight off the face of his son.

"We'd best save that story for another time."

Well, what a tease that was.

"Oh, goodness," Esme gasped as the hem of her skirt was abruptly caught in a dangling mess of sharp branches. Her hands reached back to tug on the fabric, hoping the doctor had walked far enough ahead of her that he would not take notice to her brief struggle.

There was a startling snapping sound from behind her just as her skirt became free, followed by the soft rip of shredding cotton. She sighed in exasperation, thinking her tendency to underestimate her strength had not yet waned. With an irritated huff, she turned quickly to gather up the torn hem.

Blond was all she saw at first. Just blond. Then Carlisle's innocent eyes staring up at her from where he was kneeling behind her, with a sizable strip of her dress in his hands.

"Forgive me," he murmured. With those wry dimples prodding at his cheeks, the words seemed hardly genuine. "There was no saving it," he justified, winding the sorry bit of fabric about his wrist as he stood to his full height.

"I suppose dresses aren't exactly suitable for hunting in the forest," she mumbled with a miserable swat against her skirt.

He made a faint noise of amusement from beside her, almost a giggle – lighthearted, but strained – as if he were hesitant to laugh at her expense. She looked over at him to find him clearly biting the inside of his cheek.

"We'll just have to order another, then."

Esme was about to protest politely when she was suddenly cut short by his proffered hand. Unsure of whether to take it or not, she gazed up at him questioningly and found a peculiar openness to his eyes – wide and receptive they were, almost like an infant's as he stared. The disarming forwardness of his gaze gave her the distinct feeling that he was not merely looking _at _her; he was looking _into _her.

As though magnets had been at work, her hand found its way quite happily into the firm bed of his palm.

Something replaced oxygen just then. Something much heavier and hotter and colder at once. Something much harder to breathe. She had little idea as to what it could have been, but she was certain that it was not the kind of air her lungs were built for.

This was not the first time Carlisle had taken her hand, but it was the first time she had given her hand to him willingly. No amount of preparation time should have made a difference, but somehow she did not remember it being quite so...remarkable the first time.

Her eyes fastened onto her hand in his, improperly fascinated by how nicely it seemed to fit, nonsensically delighted at how tiny it looked while held by his. The heat stopped at her wrist and coiled through every one of her fingers meticulously, rendering each delicate digit slack.

There were the smallest traces of blood still glistening beneath her fingernails, but her insecurity was obliterated once she noticed the unmistakable rosy stains along the underside of his fingers as well. Something about it made her heart jump, knowing he was perhaps not as flawless as she had initially thought.

The doctor's smile was soft and easy as he helped her out of the tangled branches. "For a moment there I thought perhaps you were opposed to chivalry," he gently teased.

She shook her head once, playing against the edges of a don't-be-ridiculous smile that was both grateful and apologetic.

"There we are," he whispered approvingly as she stepped safely out of the brush and onto the soft ground beside his feet.

"Thank you." She tried to slow the words down, tried to draw out as best she could two words of one syllable each, in the hopes of prolonging the time he chose to keep her hand in his. It was embarrassingly ridiculous.

_Why?_ Why did having her hand held feel so _disastrously wonderful?_

"Mmhm," he acknowledged her dismissively, but his gaze did not break from hers until his fingers loosened with reluctance. As his hand left hers, his eyes did as well.

Every fiber of her body was tingling in protest as his smooth fingers unwittingly teased her with their final brush of contact, and her hand dropped down to hang against her side.

There was a sickly limpness to her hand once his support was withdrawn. Her hand now felt heavy and clammy instead of light and warm; bulky and miserable instead of dainty and elated. Yet there was a lingering tremble upon her fingers, an unassumingly magical energy that still hovered around her hand, clouded about her wrist. She desperately tried to savor it for as long as it would last.

Their abruptly broken contact brought with it a heightened awareness of her unkempt appearance, and at once Esme felt terribly inadequate walking beside Carlisle in such a state.

And so she kept her lips tightly sealed as they sprinted the rest of the way home, allowing herself to surpass his speed this time. Though she was disappointed in having to deny herself the savage beauty of his run, there was not a moment to waste when she was in dire need of bathing.

He was not chasing _after her, _or at least, she never assumed that would be his intention as he ran behind her. He would never catch her unless she let him, which was not an entirely disagreeable option in the back of her mind. But somehow it felt like he _was _chasing her, and it felt like she was running _away_ from him.

Esme's eyes zeroed in on the door to the house the instant it came into sight, and she was through the threshold in a flash, up the stairs and into her bedroom as though it were all a bizarre yet thrilling dream sequence.

She fell to her knees by the bathtub and turned the faucets to fill it, wondering vaguely why she was at all breathless from her run.

Her soiled clothing fell around her in soft shreds as she lifted her foot over the rim and stepped into the water.

The water never needed to be warm, but she liked to keep it that way. Not because it made her feel more human, but because hot water felt strong enough to rid her of the hideous red stains she still felt on her skin even after the splotches and smears had disappeared.

She scrubbed at her skin methodically, preoccupied with the distant sound of the doctor's footsteps as he locked the door to the house behind him.

Now that she had agreed to hunt with him once, it would be impossible for her to refuse it again. In a strange way she anticipated that she never _would _be opposed to it from then on. But now that she was considering someday joining Carlisle in the hunt _again_... her nerves were positively stinging at the thought.

With a sigh of confusion, she stepped from the bath and watched the rose-tinted water spiral down the drain, hoping that the next hunt would not make her feel so dirty.

* * *

_**A/N**__: Poor Esme is still adjusting to the strangeness of hunting down animals to drink their blood. But her interaction with Carlisle in this chapter was something of an incident that happened to bring them a little bit closer. :) I always love to hear what you think of the chapter._


	13. Breaking the Candy Bowl

**Chapter 13:**

**Breaking the Candy Bowl**

* * *

It would have been a pitiful lie to say that she had not thought back to that fateful night in Columbus so many years ago. Esme found that it was frightfully frustrating trying to reassemble any human memories to complete a comprehensive story. They floated about in her brain like cognitive fireflies, and she was chasing them like a child with a net that was too small, and they only continued to slip through the holes, leaving her to sulk in the dark.

The bare bones of the evening were there, dry and crumbling in the back of her mind. _A dark room, painful throbbing, burning tears, hushed voices of strangers whose names would never be remembered. _Then the earth's place in space was pinched just the tiniest bit when Doctor Cullen walked into her insignificant life. The medicine he had prescribed had tasted awful, but the salve he applied to her bruised ankle had felt wonderful. His _hands _had felt wonderful, despite being only slightly warmer than ice.

She remembered distinctly that he had been the most perfect person she had ever seen. She recalled being attracted to him, but not the things he had said; the chaste, clinical, caring ways he had touched her, the voice like wine, the drawl of heaven's teasing breeze. He was truly there and gone. Like fine outward ripples from a single droplet on a pond. He was an enchanting handful of precious golden sand that slipped through her fingers and blocked out the light of the sun.

Vainly, Esme fumbled through her mind, piecing together any snippets of that night she could greedily gather.

The moment when she had first seen Carlisle was not something she could easily recall. She remembered _seeing _him, but no definitive moment stood out in her mind. She couldn't remember _where _they had been in the house. Much of the layout of her childhood home had been erased from her mind. Her hands longed to carve out a miniature of that very house, which she could hand-paint with tiny paintbrushes, patiently bringing to life every detail of her lost memories. Even if they were partially fabricated, at least she could have something by which to pretend to remember.

She would then hand-carve and arrange tiny dolls of herself and the doctor, reenacting the first night they met from beginning to end in that dollhouse. She would fill it with furniture and build a yard to surround it, with a tree that she could fall from, and...

Oh, it was so strange to think these things had actually happened. Sometimes they just didn't seem real, yet he was _here_, right with her in the very mansion she now lived in, under the same roof, breathing the same air, pacing the same floors.

If she were only brave enough, she would have asked Carlisle to recount every detail of that night to her by memory. She was sure he could have painted a perfect picture in her mind; he could have told her every last word they had exchanged in his silken voice. He could have told her their fleeting story with a depth no mortal could recall.

This was the only memory Esme would dwell on for quite some time, the only one she longed to remember. Anything else from her life was insignificant, and she did not miss it. She would miss nothing so long as she could remember nothing.

But as time went on, more and more human memories began to resurface in Esme's mind. Meanwhile, the ones she _had _remembered grew more and more distant. She would never have a desire to remember the details of her latter years – the years leading up to her death – but she wondered if it would be so terrible to remember the rest of her humanity. Some part of not knowing where she had come from or what she had seen taunted her. She should have a right to know her own past, shouldn't she?

It was a confusing little struggle, trying to piece together broken fragments of her previous life. It was a frustrating jigsaw, a bit like learning how to work the lock on an unfamiliar doorknob.

In order to ruminate properly, she had to find a quiet spot, preferably a fair distance away from Edward. While she had not asked him specifically how far one had to be for their thoughts to go unheard, it at least made her feel more comfortable when he was not so close by. As his home base tended to be his piano, she found that the upstairs library was the most appropriate place for her to think, as it set her the furthest possible distance from the music room while staying inside the house. While she often longed to sit out on the balcony, she knew that was still out of the question. So she stayed inside where the air was safer, curled up by the window while she summoned the memories.

Esme vaguely remembered watching horses gallop across a field. Swift, brown, noble creatures who always seemed to know where they were running. She had always envied their confident sense of direction.

She remembered sitting at a small table inside a kitchen, with the sun streaming into her eyes as she waited for breakfast to be served. She recalled the homey, sulfureous scent of burning eggs and the novelty of having a gas stove at her dispense.

She remembered a tiny, ginger-haired baby. It was weeping helplessly in her arms, and she knew not how to comfort it. This memory bothered her the most, but eventually the infant's sobs would cease the moment it grew too painful for her to listen any longer.

She remembered being teased. The jeering faces of children just slightly older in age than her, giggling their cruel little high-pitched giggles behind her as they dared her to bring the candy bowl down from its shelf. Her mother had always been protective of anything made of crystal, and so it sat it on the highest shelf in the cabinet in their dining room, never to be touched without the permission of an adult.

As a child, Esme had nightmares about breaking that candy bowl. Her tiny hands would reach for the glittering glass jar at the topmost shelf, and it would suddenly slip from her fingers, crashing on the checkerboard tile as she stood, helpless in a spray of crystal shards. The shatter of glass and the musk of toffee and peppermint would give her away, and she would wake in a cold sweat, dreading the cruel admonishments that never came. It had always been her greatest, most irrational fear as a child. She could only guess it had some significance being one of the few parts of her humanity she recalled with utmost clarity...

The day she broke it was the worst day of her childhood.

******-}0{-**

"Esme, I have a riddle for you," little Charlotte said in a sing-song voice from behind her.

Seven-year-old Esme whirled around, more interested in the fanning out of her bright yellow apron around her waist as she turned than the riddle she had been promised.

"Hm?"

"Name two things _every_ person has."

Esme spared a good five seconds to think on it, which was very generous for a seven-year-old with a whirly-twirly apron to watch. "Um...two legs."

"No, silly. Some people lose their legs."

"How can you lose your legs?" Esme was shocked and frightened at the thought.

"By breaking them!"

Goodness, that would hurt awfully much. Esme hoped she would never have to break one of her legs.

"Guess again."

Esme sighed and skipped away, but Charlotte was still following behind her, so she offered another half-hearted guess. "Two eyes?"

The last thing Esme wanted to hear was that people could lose their eyes as well. She covered her ears as Charlotte began explaining just how this was possible, and only let her hands down when she saw that her cousin's lips had stopped moving.

"Do you give up?" Charlotte asked with a triumphant grin. She really shouldn't smile so widely. She was missing her two front teeth.

"Yes, I give up." Esme conceded reluctantly.

"Two parents!"

Oh. Of course.

Why were all riddles so obvious once one ran out of guesses?

"Lottie! Esme! Come inside, girls! It's nearly time for supper!" Mother's voice called over the humid chorus of locusts in the yard.

It would have been nice had they been invited inside to come out of the dreadful heat, but inside the house was even hotter than outside. It was stuffy too, which made it even worse.

Esme didn't want to go inside just yet, so she lingered on the porch steps, swishing her apron to and fro. She wished it would have been windier outside so the breeze could do it for her.

"Psst."

Esme turned her head up with a start at the hissing sound from behind her.

Her eyes darted over to the source of the sound: Charlotte's elder sister Melina.

"Psst. Esme! Come over here!"

She was whispering, which was never a good sign. Usually this meant she wanted to do something naughty, and hopefully not find trouble for it.

"Do I have to?" Esme asked.

"Yes, silly."

Esme sighed heavily. She despised being called "silly" all of the time. But Charlotte and Melina seemed to favor the word when referring to her. She was jealous that they managed to make it sound so sophisticated whenever they said it.

_Silly._

It was so delightfully degrading. So elegant and pushy and perfect, slipping off the tongue with a twirl of an 's' and a trill of double 'l's.

Esme wished she could say it the way they did, but there was never anyone else around to deem sillier than her.

"Now be quiet," Melina commanded, cupping her uncomfortably warm palm over Esme's mouth as she dragged her inside the stuffy house.

Melina handled Esme like a mother would handle her child, but Esme had no choice in the matter. She was cooperative and did as she was told, or else she would be teased relentlessly until she did it.

Melina walked Esme sneakily into the dining room where Charlotte was waiting with her hands folded in front of her skirt, just a wall's width away from where her mother was cooking in the kitchen. Esme could smell hot grease off the griddle all around her, and it made a tiny tiara of perspiration droplets appear on her brow. She already knew very well what she was going to have to do. She had been forced to do it twice before...

"See that candy bowl up there?" Melina pointed to the top of the china cabinet with her stubby finger, and Charlotte grinned up at the colorful crystal tabernacle.

Esme, however, did not crack a smile.

"Yes." She couldn't lie.

"You're going to stand up on this chair, and climb onto that shelf, and bring it down for us."

Melina's voice was so unquestionably instructive. Everything she said had to be done. She was a dainty dictator, a manipulating menace in a frilly white apron of innocence.

Esme did not consent to carry out the chore. She knew she had no choice, and so she hoisted herself up onto that chair and she hitched her leg up onto that shelf.

She knew Melina and Charlotte were watching her from below. They were giggling to themselves, either not knowing she could hear them, or perhaps they did it just to taunt her. Once she had dared to look down at them from the shelf and was frightened by how small they looked from all the way up there. Somehow, climbing up a ten foot tall tree was nowhere near as daunting as climbing up a six foot cabinet.

She could see the candy inside that bowl now – each individual piece a sweet jewel gleaming behind the tinted blue glass. They should have looked enticing to her, but they did nothing to tempt her when the risk of trouble loomed in the air. And the air was so much hotter up here...

Her palms were damp from her nerves, but she was so close to completing her quest. All she had to do was grasp the prize, and climb back down, and it would all be over.

Her hands let go of the wooden ledge when she reached the top, and she stretched out her tiny fingers for the bowl that was just within reach.

It was not even a misjudgment that made Esme loose her balance. Her fingers grasped at the glass, suddenly finding it too heavy to carry, and it simply tumbled from her hands. Even gravity was against her.

There was a nasty, weighty feeling as it slipped from her desperate fingers, and it still sickened her for weeks afterward to remember how that had felt. She could recall the exact note of the crystal shards as they scattered over the tile floor, and the shocked squeaks and cries of the two children who looked on from the threshold.

_How clumsy. How unrefined. How utterly stupid._

_Helpless, hopeless Esme._

They jeered at her while no one else was looking, and she cried. Her mother scolded her, and she was too afraid to defend her innocence in the accident.

In reaction to one incident, Esme had sworn to take on a new personality – one of clever rebellion. No one would tell her what to do if she wasn't around to hear their mindless orders. But no matter how rebellious she chose to be, it only served to make her the odd one out.

Perhaps it was better to be a rebel for a good cause than to be a conformist with no voice. But there comes a time when the rebel wants to grow up too, and this is a challenge much greater than climbing a six foot shelf.

By the time Esme had reached her teenage years, she was disappointed to find that she was still such a child. She hated herself a little bit for that. She was a disaster who would never be proper and elegant or desirable or mature. She would always be the same foolish, unlucky child.

_Helpless, hopeless Esme..._

******-}0{-**

One day Edward approached her and asked her about this strangely detailed memory. Why did she always think of that damned candy bowl all of the time? He wanted to know. He was so very curious.

Esme confessed her own confusion to him, and they pondered it together for a long while in the fine late summer air.

"I don't know why that one memory is so prominent." She shook her head. "It seems so unimportant..."

Perhaps it was a lingering fear of disapproval, the young scholar suggested. Esme did not deny the possibility, even while Edward insisted that she did not _need_ to fear disapproval any longer.

Boldly, she asked Edward if _he _feared disapproval.

His dark brows descended over his eyes, and a solemn, stormy expression spread over his angular face.

"Everyone fears disapproval," he said.

Inevitably their profound conversations of dreams and memories would lead them to discussing the legitimacy of their souls, something that happened often in Carlisle's absence.

Edward's theory on the matter was one that deeply intrigued Esme. He supposed the figurative souls of vampires were made of "stained glass". They had lost the clarity they once had in life, no longer true windows to their morality. A vampire's soul was covered in useless and ornate colors, now only a decorative attribute of its owner's human-like façade. This "half-soul" let some light inside, but mostly it was dim. A soul served little to no purpose now; it was simply there to give the architecture of their timeless bodies an artificial sense of completeness.

"Then our sense of morality is also artificial?" Esme supposed, finding the suggestion slightly disturbing if it were true.

Edward leaned back on the porch steps and pursed his lips. "I think it is, yes." He stared hard at the ground, tamping down the grass with one foot. "We should not be forced to adhere to any system of morals if our instincts pull us against it."

"But you can't tell me that you would have _no guilt _in killing humans to sate your thirst," she emphasized. "Surely the guilt is evidence that we have a moral drive as well."

He turned to her with an ironic grin. "Ah, but how do I know that 'guilt' is not just Carlisle's influence? He _made _me think about killing humans in a negative a way. Thus, it becomes a question of nature verses nurture."

She paused to stare at him for a minute, stumped.

"Well, then who nurtured _Carlisle _into taking the moral route?" she argued, gently critical. "As far as I know, he made that decision completely on his own."

Edward sighed heavily. "Carlisle was the son of a pastor. It was only natural that he should be an exception. And not without _immense _difficulty, you should know. He attempted to kill himself in countless ways in order to avoid taking the blood of a human."

Esme gasped softly in shock. _Carlisle tried to kill himself?_

Edward tensed visibly at her mental question, his expression suggesting that he may have accidentally revealed too much.

His tone was careful and slightly calmer when he next spoke. "Carlisle discovered his immortal nature the hard way."

"I wish I'd known this before," Esme uttered, slightly embarrassed that she'd not tried harder to control herself in the beginning for Carlisle's sake.

"He doesn't talk about his early days very often," Edward said. "I only hear the things he would not normally volunteer aloud."

"Then you shouldn't be telling me such things," she whispered, shuddering.

"I'm sorry. It won't happen again," he offered a quiet apology. "But perhaps it would help you to better understand where he comes from when he insists that we must still have morals. Though there is little precedent to his theory other than his own experience."

Esme thought about this for a while. "I don't know, Edward. Maybe it _is_ our challenge to uphold the morals we were given in our previous life, regardless of whether we feel driven against them or not."

Edward squinted at her as if seeing her for the first time. "Challenge from _who, _Esme? _God?_" He chuckled bitterly and shook his head. "God is hardly concerned with our kind, I can guarantee you that."

Something in his wording intrigued her. "But you believe there _is_ a God."

He scoffed softly as he thought over his words.

"Having been raised Christian in my human life, and having Carlisle's religious enthusiasm breathing down my neck all of the time, I confess it is rather impossible to convince myself that God does not _exist_, but just because He exists does not mean that He is _involved _with us in any way."

Edward crossed his arms, and for once he looked very much like a defiant but helpless adolescent, sitting there on the porch steps after a heated argument with one of his parents.

"I'm sorry, Edward," she said slowly. "I will admit that it is a struggle to remain faithful in divine intervention when we believe ourselves to be damned, but I must continue telling myself that one day I may be surprised to find that my devotion was worth it."

He looked at her with an open mouth and she attempted a lame little shrug, uncomfortable with the way he was staring.

"My God... You're just like Carlisle," he marveled, eyes twitching.

Esme fluttered inside at what she could not help interpreting as a compliment. _Just like Carlisle? Surely not._

Edward chuckled ruefully. "It's that persistent yet hesitant manner of speaking…" His shoulders shook with tense humor. "It's infuriating, really."

She frowned. "Does Carlisle frustrate you?"

Edward's jaw clenched, but something in the tawny dusk of his eyes softened grudgingly. "Yes, but I am cursed to hear his thoughts and know that he means well, always," he sighed. "And so you see, I have no excuse to be ignorant of his true intentions. _That _is what frustrates me."

A flighty smile passed across her face. "You are like a son to him, Edward. Of course he always means well. It should be a blessing to have that knowledge."

"Hmph."

"Don't you think of him as a father?" she asked tentatively. She had always assumed their relationship had been mutually sound from both sides. Could it have been possible that she was wrong?

Edward bit his lip, the gesture odd for such a confident face. "I had a father once. It isn't easy to remember him, but in a way this is better. I can invent him however I please." He tilted his head up proudly before his eyes dimmed again. "Carlisle assumes that I _need _him to serve in the place of my deceased father."

"He only wants you to feel happy. Secure," she offered softly.

"He's physically twenty-three years old, Esme. No matter how comfortable I might be around him, it will always be awkward to look up to him as a _father_."

_Twenty-three?_

The number was innocently staggering to her for a split second. Either disappointment or disbelief sunk in the pit of her stomach at the realization that she was physically the doctor's elder. It was almost laughable that someone so mature was in fact younger than her by three years.

Edward gave her a lazy stare, and there she was again, over-thinking every piece of information she gathered about this enigma. She shook her head apologetically and looked down at her lap.

"Well, age has little meaning to vampires. Wisdom is really all we have to count on now," she said softly.

"Yes, I agree wisdom is enough to justify his true age. But I never really _asked_ for a father figure," Edward continued, a blunt edge of perplexity to his tone. "He seems to think I am in denial; that I really do depend on him but I'm only too proud to admit it."

Esme glanced up inquisitively, and Edward gave her a tight smile, sensing her concern.

"I think it stems from his own secret need for fatherly counsel," he resolved charitably. "After all, his father was somewhat of a religious tyrant – not a very nurturing man, at least from what Carlisle remembers."

Esme savored a moment of pity for the doctor, and it seemed all the more miraculous that his kindness outshone everyone around him despite however he had been raised.

She smiled sadly at Edward, and her voice was low and sincere. "You are lucky to have him, Edward. Truly."

A melancholy smirk served his lips well. "I know," he whispered.

"We should be grateful that Carlisle has faith where the rest of us do not," she added thoughtfully. "And as long as he believes we are destined for better, I will try to salvage that belief as well."

It took great effort for her to be so resolute, but something about the doctor's faith was mysteriously addicting. She almost needed it.

"What inspires you people to cling so desperately to your faith is beyond me," Edward admitted with a shake of his head.

"I suppose it's all I have left," she murmured dolefully.

A warm sweep of wind disturbed the awkward silence her remark had left in its wake. The papery rustle of dead green leaves could be heard from all directions, like a cage of sound closing in around them. Then suddenly it came to rest as the leaves floated back to their grassy bed and resumed their slumber.

Edward's solemn voice chipped the silent lull, "I don't know what to say to that."

And that meant he was ready to move on to more lighthearted topics.

Although their conversation of souls and faith aroused a plethora of new questions that needed answering, Esme could never muster the courage to ask Carlisle _exactly _what his theory on the matter was. Surely it must have involved some deeply bedded seeds of religious affirmations that she could not hope to understand in the least. Carlisle's hold on faith had always been intimidating to her.

Edward's reasoning, however, was much easier to understand. She did not want to agree with him, but deep down a part of her certainly did favor his outlook. She could share in his sometimes reluctant bitterness at this life, but most of all she could have the company that she desperately needed when Carlisle was away.

The sound of Edward's deep, youthful voice had become deliciously familiar, and his scent became soothing to her senses – like honey and heather – an ironically feminine pair of notes that was made masculine by the one who shamelessly carried it. She could think of no better way to spend her time than being with him here in the yard, just talking and watching him talk.

His face was truly exquisite, as if it had been painted by a heartbroken woman, longing for a true love. Her skills, perfected over many ages alone, resulted in the finished portrait of Edward's wry smile, smooth marble cheekbones, and an abundant mess of chestnut hair that shone like silken rust. His dark amber eyes forever taunted the artist's lonesome heart from the canvas, framed by long raven lashes whose whisper she would never feel against her brow.

Esme wondered at how Edward was not at all bothered by being alone. She wondered how his brightness, his talent, his charm, and his startling handsomeness had not afforded him more attention to the goodness of his heart. He did not see himself as anything special, and so Esme decided she would have to see those things for him. She would love him and care for him and dote on him because he deserved to be loved and cared for and doted upon. He was, in every sense aside from biology, the closest thing to her beloved son.

She could pretend to have a son, if she really wanted. She could _regard _Edward as a son. He was appreciative of her care and concern, and he cared as deeply for her in return.

But a son should not have been permitted to read the thoughts of his mother. This was one of the many new things she should be expected to fear. Now, Esme feared so many things.

She feared her blood-lust, she feared killing, she feared the rusty red eyes that glared back at her in the mirror, and the prospect of eternity. But most of all she feared that she would never have the unconditional love of another, or the unconditional love of God. Even with an eternity to live, this seemed utterly hopeless to one day be true. How was she to be loved unconditionally with a soul of stained glass?

Esme missed the days when her greatest fear had been breaking the candy bowl.

* * *

_**A/N: **__Esme and Edward's conversation about the legitimacy of their souls is a very important part of the story as a whole. What did you think of their theories? Do vampires have souls? Half-souls? No souls at all? _


	14. To Trust Her Heart

**Chapter 14:**

**To Trust Her Heart**

* * *

Edward must have despised her.

She said the name so many times, over and over again in her head.

_Carlisle._

_Carlisle._

_Carlisle._

And when she was not saying it consciously, it was still there, thrumming like a somber song in the back of her mind.

She even dared to whisper it aloud when she had the spare moment outside, alone, before Edward caught her.

All at once the singing of the birds was loftier, the breeze that rustled the leaves was softer, and the very air around her warmed as though blushing. All of nature was affected by his name.

Each time she said it, it became more and more forbidden. More and more beautiful. More exotic, more saintly, more clean and clear and delightful on her lips.

It was difficult saying it with the sole intention to address him. Esme was made frightfully nervous by the fact that saying Carlisle's name in his presence would impress a weight of expectancy upon her. He would be _waiting _for her to ask him something, to tell him something. His name was not a free piece of vocabulary she could simply say whenever she pleased.

She used every excuse to be near him, so long as she was not pressured to speak with him. When she expressed an interest in the impressive library that spanned the walls of his study, he warmly invited her to come explore the books in his collection. Esme had her own smaller library upstairs, but it was filled with contemporary works, scholarly texts, and philosophical anthologies that better served Edward's interests.

While there were as many encylopedic works in the doctor's study, there were so many more strange, provocative, ancient books as well. There was something incredibly romantic about the eclectic collection, because it could be replicated nowhere else. Many of the books he owned had been handwritten, and these she felt unworthy to even touch. Esme was shocked that Carlisle trusted her with every one of them. Heavens, if she had owned such a valuable library, she would have never let _anyone _touch a single book. Doctor Cullen was so generous that he had no qualms about sharing every last item he owned with anyone who passed his path. He made her want to be more like him.

She would gaze at him from the corner of her eye as she feigned absorption with some brittle journal of medicine, her nose snug between the musty pages.

He worked sedulously at his desk, one hand upon his brow as the other looped his signature in peacock blue ink on the front of another envelope. He set the fine fountain pen down beside the paper and sat back in his chair to take an unnecessary glance over what he had written. His hand then went to the wax ladle, spilled a dollop of the blue liquid onto the paper and firmly pressed his stamp into the seal. He repeated the perfectly mundane action over and over, without so much as a sigh, as diligently as she was watching him repeat this action (though she was not immune to the occasional sigh).

With every passing moment he politely ignored her, she admired every bit of him: the dusty gold of his soft blond hair, the noble shadow cast by his nose against his cheek, the pearl-like sheen of his skin in the cloudy sunlight.

There was such preposterous elegance to the way his fingers moved; she wondered how the humans he encountered daily did not immediately declare that there was something anomalous about him. Just the way he folded the letter into thirds – the fluidity of every finger, the gracefulness, the endearing preciseness of it all – it softly screamed that he was not an ordinary man by any means.

Once all of his mail was read and replied to, he would read to himself from large gilded texts which she assumed were gospels. If there ever arrived a moment in a man's life when he had consumed as much as there was to have from either the Old or New Testament alike, Carlisle had proved that moment either did not exist even in the life of an immortal, or simply that it was worth prolonging, even with a perfect memory.

He held the gem-studded Carolingian gospel books between his seamless palms and read silently while Esme watched him from across the room.

His eyes were dim and sensual as they swept over the pages. There was something so sensitively seductive in the subtle way his small lips curved up on the right when he found something of enlightenment in the word of his fellow evangelists. He was not thinking of sinful things – in fact his thoughts were of just the opposite – but the faux-luxuriation of his expression suggested sin.

Innocent men should not have been made to look like him. Only the wicked were so tempting to the gaze. His was a face made for sin, as was his body. His flesh. His eyes. But his heart was so forceful an essence about him that it brushed against her sleeve when they accidentally crossed paths. Carlisle was holy on every facet, and his righteousness was blinding when it was added to the already crippling level of his attractiveness. There was no singular way to describe him. He was such an anomaly, such a strange specimen. He was like nothing else she'd ever heard of, much less seen.

Some days Esme would sit on the sill of a window looking out at the sky and wonder if he was actually real.

She had guessed he was born some inconceivably long time ago, lived for an insignificant amount of time as a human being, then was bitten against his will and transformed into a creature of the damned. He was granted immortality against his will. He was made inhumanely beautiful _against his will_.

That was the most fascinating part, perhaps even the reason why she was so smitten with his every word and every action.

All the while, he had seemed so unnatural to her because he so clearly had _no idea _how to behave in a body that was made to make the female species ache and a face that was fashioned to make the angels weep. Carlisle was immaculate because he sought absolutely no usage of the attractiveness he had been granted. He simply accepted it _against his will. _It was not his fault he looked that way. It was not his fault he was a vampire who had to drink blood and shimmer in the sunlight and break the sound barrier when he sprinted through the forest and all of the ridiculously wonderful things vampires did. And no matter how kind and compassionate and caring and generous and innocent he was, there would always be the unfortunate side-effect of making every vulnerable young woman he encountered weak in the knees with lust.

He could not help it. He barely recognized it, because he was _that _innocent.

Esme was always wondering how well this quiet doctor knew himself, how much time a day he spent pondering his wills and duties, his limits and goals, his sins and blessings.

She wondered endlessly what he found so engrossing in those Gospel books. She wondered about everything he did.

Something about him disturbed her. Something about him was scandalous. Something about him reminded her of terrors and insecurity and loss. Something about him was Jesus Christ.

He was perfect from every angle, in every kind of lighting; every crevice of his heart shone as brightly as the stars in the summer sky, and she had not even to look anywhere but his eyes to know these things.

He was irrationally beautiful, both inside and out, and this frightened her deeply. Esme had never been with a man so pure, so holy, so steadfast in his faith. And the irony lay where Carlisle was not a man, but a creature of the damned.

They all were damned. She, Edward, and the doctor. They made up a melancholy trinity, living off of each others' half-hearted optimism and the blood of animals which God so lovingly created for this incomplete world.

Sometimes Esme thought back on the little terrors she still remembered from her humanity, and it felt like a more painful bite to her throat. Why were the memories still so distant? She knew she had been abused, and she knew her only son had died at his birth, and she knew that these were the sorts of things that led to suicide. So why did a part of her still refuse to believe these things had once been _real_?

It was almost as if looking at Carlisle lessened their _realness; _as if each time she met his eyes, he was taking one morbid memory at a time, plucking them from her brain and dropping them into the fire. She watched them burn, and she could feel _him_ watching from behind her...

Carlisle hurt her. He hurt her just by not looking at her with his gorgeous gaze, just by filling his lungs with the air he did not need – just by being present. Yet Esme craved the pain of his presence, because of that _something_. That _something _about him that she never could pinpoint in the drab chaos of her oppressed mind.

Oh, how he terrified her.

Yes, _terrified. _This was the perfect word. Not completely was she consumed by _fear_, but a sense of sickening wonder and delightful confusion regarding his past, his motives. He was an enigma to her, even if he claimed to share his every thought and every emotion with her. She felt that he knew so much more than he let her see; he knew so much more _about her _that she could not see. And there was something hidden inside of _him_ – something _he did not even see_. She wanted it. She wanted to cradle it in her arms like the breathing child she lost and take it with her everywhere she went.

Esme longed to love. And perhaps loving the man who destroyed her mortality was appealing in some macabre way.

This love was not to be confused with the love for material securities. It was not a mere appreciation, or even a deep fondness like that which she felt for his son. All the while Esme knew she had not exhausted every option. She knew there was another kind of love, a love that was too frightening to even name. A love that hid itself inside satin pillowcases and smelled like springtime and tasted like life and churned in the pit of her stomach. But this was not the love she felt for Carlisle Cullen. It couldn't have been.

After so much time spent thinking up ways to get closer to him, Esme suddenly wanted to put distance between them whenever possible. Distance was good. Distance was healthy and wise and safe. Esme was happy with this distance. She was also furious with it.

Step by step, inch by inch, across the floor that stretched between them, his foot resting on the carpet pointed towards hers, and he didn't even notice. He showed no care that it forced an invisible line from him to her. He had no interest in the way it subtly connected them. But she noticed those kinds of things. Goodness knows, she noticed how thrilling it was.

His shoes were meticulous, just like the rest of him, and it seemed an impossible chore that he managed to keep himself looking so fixed and immaculate all the time. Everything that could have imposed a dent in his perfection suddenly became perfect as well. He was like a wild infection that contaminated everything in his path. He soiled things with his beauty.

To touch a piece of paper with his finger made it glow, to rest his body within an armchair made the cushions look twice as inviting. There was an aura that surrounded him, brushing everything in a radius of however many significant degrees from his center of gravity. It was a profound and perplexing mystery that deserved great studying.

And so Esme studied her doctor from this healthy, safe distance as he partook in some lively discussion with Edward in their usual seats by the drawing room fireplace. As she sat admiring every fine detail of his face as she had countless times before without shame, she found herself pleasantly crippled by his beauty, at a loss for any word that would not come up short when used as an adequate descriptor for him.

In her dumbfounded state of mind, Esme's thoughts seemed to consistently settle on the same idle word over and over: handsome.

The word was so innocent in her mind, but the cognitive connection to what sat before her tore that word to shreds, watered it down to the bare bones of a useless adjective. Such a word was nearly _demeaning _when it came to this man. Carlisle was _not _handsome, if she was going to be critical. Whatever ancient soul had thought up the word in the first place had never encountered Carlisle before, then or else he might have had a separate set of standards by which to make his sorry dictionary definition fit the catalogue.

Because anything remotely appealing could be called "handsome". It was just a category. Houses were handsome, furniture was handsome, paintings were handsome.

No, Carlisle was not handsome. He was _obscenely ravishing._

It happened so fast.

She was made painfully aware of it – the precise moment when it slapped her suddenly and unforgivingly across the cheek.

Something Edward said – bless the boy – had made _him _laugh.

It had not started out so terribly, not much more than a pleasant prickle beneath her ribs as she watched the precious joy flicker across his exquisite face.

Carlisle was laughing.

For once, succumbing to true, full, rich laughter. It was a sound Esme suspected was rare for him, something that should be savored like the last sweet drop of blood itself. And so she greedily drank in every tender timbre, every ounce of flawless fluidity in the enthralling sound. Every rapid blink of his eyelashes was mysteriously beguiling. Every line or dimple that flitted across his face was silently begging for her touch. Every miniscule tremble of his chest in his strain for breath was like a tiny miracle.

He was laughing, and she adored the sound of his laughter. But her adoration was all too swiftly replaced with something else. Something dark and bright and lethal.

First a prick, then a stab. In the matter of an instant.

His heavenly eyes met hers and all at once, gravity let up; the galaxy curled itself inward in startled defense. Through that single gaze her heart had been painfully magnetized to his, and he was killing her, plunging the weightless dagger of his perfection into her ghost of a soul – hard and fast and deep – much harsher than the forceful fist of her former husband had ever been upon her flesh.

And that was the moment. Agápē to Eros.

Esme was in love with Carlisle Cullen.

_God in heaven.._. Had it really happened that fast?

Of course it hadn't. It was but a cruel illusion. The feelings had never needed to develop – they had been there all along, germinating and fermenting feverishly just beneath her skin. It took nothing more than his innocent laughter to crackle the pressure, to send the barricades crumbling down, burying her in a sea of dust.

And it was not even the subtle kind of realization that creeped up behind her. It was like bathing in wine, like breathing in fire. It was a devastating, penetrating, tearing apart of the heartstrings sort of culmination, as if in that moment she knew she would never, _could _never love another after him. The thought of her well-kept affection rushing toward any other man disgusted her. This innocent doctor had unwittingly trampled any hope Esme had of finding love anywhere but the tender gleam of his warming gaze, the ache-inducing fragility of his every sensitive smile, the hurdling pressure she felt within her heart from one breath of his unmistakable scent. The slightest twitch of his arm or the smallest tilt of his chin grabbed something deep inside of her, and she was overwhelmed by the unexplainable need to throw herself violently against his body and never let go lest she be damned.

Because he was _agonizing –_ just sitting there, just breathing and speaking and blinking. Just being. And she could not _be _without him.

Oh, had he only known the dying damsel he had awoken in his reckless rescue would have rather perished upon that bed than live a thousand lifetimes in his presence without _his_ passionate adoration. If he had only possessed the clairvoyance to see that she would have been better off in hell if he could not give her anything but this kind, impersonal torture...

And now when he spoke to her, she could hear nothing but the desperate sighing of her heart. His voice was like walking through a meadow when the wind had just begun to settle. The long grass swayed and rippled and tickled her ankles, and that was what his voice felt like. It was like she could fall into it, swim within it. Even though it was only a sound _–_ a sound so soft it almost hurt. Sometimes it sounded like _he _was breathless.

And that was ridiculous.

He started speaking to her, and it was so impossible to listen to the words he was saying. Because all Esme could hear were the beautiful sounds he was making with that voice.

That terrible, wonderful voice.

She knew it so well. She could imagine him saying anything, almost exactly how he would say it. She could replay the sounds over and over again in her head, but they never _felt _the same as when he was in front of her, speaking like he was right now. The very words that spilled forth from him settled inside of her, nesting themselves in her delicate heart.

Despite how deeply she was disturbed by him, despite all her misgivings, and all of his mysteriously complicated actions, she needed to love him. She needed to love him in the way she promised to never love a man.

It had nothing to do with his preposterous beauty, or the ethereal grace in his gait, or the inexplicable way he carried himself that brought a coy urge to blush beneath her frigid marble cheeks.

It was that _something _beneath it all, buried in the blessed brine of his very being.

It was because, on the outside, he was so clearly well-adjusted, confident, composed, and content. Yet Esme could see that a buried part of him was positively weeping to be taken under the wing of someone else. He had always been the provider of the wings. His wings were full. Carlisle was the shepherd of too many flocks. But even the one who takes care of everyone must be taken care of.

Esme had to wonder if Carlisle had truly never known the doting affections of a woman. How long had he gone without this kind of attention? Had he ever believed himself _worthy_ of this attention? Had he no sense of his own irresistibility? Had he no concept of how broad a target he was for feminine obsession? For how many years had he gone denying himself the unspoken blessing in favor of solitude, and for what reasons?

He worked so well at hiding it, but she could sense it. The desire was there, neatly incarcerated within the burning helm of his heart, and she had no means to liberate it when he would not admit to it.

If only he were to give into that need.

_She_ could take care of him. Oh, she would have given her world to take him under _her_ wings.

She would fulfill every one of his unspoken needs until he begged her to spare him. She would damn the world that showed him no justice; she would seek revenge on those who gave him no mercy. She would love him in the way he deserved to be loved – in the way no other man on the face of the earth could _withstand _being loved. That was the kind of love Carlisle deserved. It was impossible for anyone but God to give this kind of love, but Esme would give everything of herself to gain at least a percentile of that unattainable quantity.

How deliciously taboo it was to imagine how Carlisle might _love her _in return.

How terrifying.

It was an almost impossible thing to imagine, but she tried. Oh, she tried. Every searing blister upon her mind was evidence to this.

She was in a constant state of alertness with him in the house, knowing at any time she must be prepared for him to walk into the room without warning. His entrances were always so unheralded. She couldn't explain how he did it, she knew only that he entered a room with this air of unsuspecting ceremony about him – the door flew open and there he would be, in all his glory – and the most fascinating part was that he didn't even realize his presence was such a cause for ceremony. It was like every moving particle in the room stood still when he entered. His scent would purge the room of all its clarity, dragging her into the dangerous realm of a delusional dimension. She treaded the currents of his aroma – a thrilling potpourri of love and lust. She breathed in the intoxicating essence of his being and she drowned, submitted, fell under.

He reminded her of tribulations and judgment and the importance of fidelity and all of the reasons good Christian women give up their faith. He was the personification of mercy. And Esme could not help but worship him when he was not watching.

Her heart was so sore, so reluctant to open for him, to take in the weight of his character, to make room for this impossible victim she sought to claim.

She wanted Carlisle to be hers. Because the thought of him belonging to anyone else turned her to fire.

She wanted to be his. Because the thought of him refusing her turned her to frost.

She wanted to be consumed by him, possessed by him – taken, owned, absorbed, exhausted, swallowed, filled, and immersed by all of him.

She wondered if these longings could even be real. Her heart was an inexperienced one, having never truly loved a man before. How was she to know if her feelings were true this time?

It was one thing to trust the feelings of a stranger, and even to trust herself. But to trust her own heart was perhaps the most profound and the most painful trust of all.

* * *

_**A/N: **__I unwittingly devoted an entire chapter to the precise moment when Esme realizes she is in love with Carlisle... I thought it should be a striking moment for her, filled with rather strong feelings not only because he is the one she is destined to be with, but because Esme is still a newborn, and her feelings are obviously much more potent than they would have been at any other time. So what did you think? Was it too powerful? Not powerful enough? _


	15. Carried Up the Stairs

**Chapter 15:**

**Carried Up the Stairs**

* * *

Falling in love was horrendously confusing. So obsessed was Esme with her infatuation, that she began taking tally of every instance she suspected held confirmation for reciprocation. Every time he smiled was like a guillotine to her heartstrings. Every time he looked in her general direction, the air sizzled with electricity. A sound as imperceptible as the rustling of papers, if it came from him, was utterly thrilling. If he were to pass her briefly in the hall, she was enthralled beyond reason when the gentle breeze of his movement caressed her skin.

Ah, the passing in the hallway. Such a strange and rare event that was. It did not happen often, but when it did she was never ready for it, and it was always twice as nerve-wracking as she remembered. She might see him from the opposite end of the hall just as she was walking in that direction, and once their eyes snapped onto each other's it was too late for her to slink away into another open door. But each open door that passed her offered up its bright invitation into a perfectly empty room, a temporary sanctuary that would protect her from that thrilling brush she really did not want to be protected from. It was like the walls were closing in around them the closer he came, the details of his face and the subtleties of his scent grew richer until he was just a few feet away from her. He always smiled for her, and sometimes if she remembered how, she could smile back. The faint tide of his movement fluttered her dress, cooled her bare skin, and filled her lungs with sweetened air.

To Esme's disappointment, Carlisle had never touched her directly. But each time they passed each other in the hall, he came a little closer to touching her. Each time, he held her gaze for just a bit longer. And each time, it got a little harder for her to return his breathtaking smile.

It was almost as if she had no control over the contour of her own lips when he was directly across from her. The features of her face felt a bit rigid, but melting at the same time. She shouldn't have had to worry about what her face looked like, being pasted perfection as it was, but she did worry when he was there. She worried about how she looked to him. She wondered foolishly if he could tell how painstaking her efforts were to keep her expressions reasonably unaffected.

All the time now, she was thinking about their evening of first introduction. When star-crossed lovers meet for the first time, are they not bound to each other in that very first moment when their eyes lock? Had she once lived through that very moment with the doctor and lost all memory of it? What things _did _she remember?

She recalled being perpetually shocked by the color of his hair. Such pure blond was rare, if not fantasy for real men to have. The flowingly artistic structure of every strand gave him the look of a fairy tale prince more than a doctor. If this had not been the first thing she was moved by, then certainly it was the absence of color from his marble-white skin. He wore the sun in his hair and the moonlight in his flesh. Or maybe it was his voice that first captivated her volatile heart. The evanescent strike of every syllable he pronounced, the way the air seemed to carry his every word with a loose and loving grasp. His voice was snowflakes and clouds and transcendental softness only found outside the realm of the earth.

If it was none of these things that forced her past the brink of irreversible infatuation, then it was undoubtedly the severity of his heaven-glazed gaze. Gentle golden drills, his eyes were – each fashioned by angels with the sole purpose to pierce her soul. To this day, she let him bury himself inside of her very soul just by staring. Shards of nonsense and pieces of the surrounding world skidded past her peripheral when Carlisle looked into her eyes. This was why staring at him for too long was a lethal mistake.

He was frustratingly oblivious to his effect on her. Nothing had changed in his eyes since she had made such a profound discovery in her heart. He was unaffected by her behavior – or at least he appeared to be.

There followed the inevitable, shameless plotting for ways in which she could reap his attention. Perhaps if she had some powdered sugar...

Unlike those flighty nurses in the hospital, Esme would have used an entire sack full of sugar on the doctor. One per day.

She laughed bitterly at the ridiculous thought.

Of course she did not need to dust her fingers with powdered sugar to have an excuse to touch him. She could do it if she wanted. She could brush her fingers against his if she decided to stand close enough. Perhaps she would whisper an apology, or perhaps she would not say anything and leave him to ponder the puzzle she had left him with, the sting of an inadequate touch. This was the sort of beauty an "accident" offered.

It might not have been so haunting had she not known his touch already. Maybe it would have been better if Carlisle had never held her hand, or touched her arm – then she would have never known what she was missing. She wanted _that touch_ back more than anything. Just remembering it was not enough. Greedily, she wished for another lovely incident to add to an ever-growing list. The list was disgracefully short as of now. Every minute, she thought of adding to it. Every minute, she thought of him.

One thought of Carlisle managed to elicit the strangest and most unexpected reactions, spanning across her body. A swift shiver up her spine, a tiny trickle down the back of her calf, a flood of heat between her breasts, a pinch in her stomach, a fleeting pulse within her lap. These reactions would sometimes strike her in peculiar combinations. Perhaps they would first start with a stirring at the base of her spine, followed by a fluttering warmth around her neck, and finally ending in the tips of her fingers on one hand, before dissolving like sunlight after the passing of a cloud overhead. Sometimes they simply burst in one part of her body and went nowhere. Sometimes they lasted longer than they did the first time, and sometimes they were almost too fast to catch.

Each sensation was similar, though they were not the same. They varied both in their feel and intensity. Sometimes they were so strong she had to sit down if she was standing. But they seemed to all be composed of the same mysterious substance – a kind of warm, curdling energy – a violent pheromone that had no fixed source. It came _from him_, somehow, and penetrated her body without tangible connection.

It made her ache whether or not he was present, which was evidence that it lingered within her, even when he was not there to give her the oblivious gift.

Carlisle's hours at the hospital had changed for convenience with respect to the shifting of the seasons. Lately, he would leave at night and return in the mornings. Waiting for Carlisle to return to the house was like waiting for the sun to rise in the early morning. When his shift demanded that he spend his nights at the hospital, the two events became so closely linked that for a short week or so, Esme came to associate the rising of the sun with the doctor's return.

The adjustments in his schedule came with the happy advantage that she saw more of him in the sunlight. But the days, unlike the nights, were more daunting. In the light it was so much harder to hide from him, so much less acceptable to retreat to her room and remain in hibernation until his next shift.

To keep herself from becoming an ungrateful hermit, Esme forced herself to make an appearance at least three times during the day. The first was when he arrived at the door.

If Edward had not reached the foyer first, she would welcome the doctor inside.

Every time she went to open that door, she thought that _this time _she would be prepared. But every time, without fail, his face on the other side was only more jarring than the last. His eyes glinted like gold leaf, always more brilliant than she expected. The delicate reflections of his crystal-studded skin filled the foyer and bounced jubilantly off the walls. The sugar-and-ice aroma of his venom was always a fair bit stronger when he came from his work. She realized with a chill, that even Carlisle was not fully immune to the power of his patients' blood.

It had taken at least a week of gathering courage before Esme felt comfortable offering to hold his medical bag while he removed his coat. He seemed neither surprised nor patronizing as she had feared when she finally made the offer – he was only politely grateful.

Their fingers brushed as he handed her the item, and she knew it would have been useless to try masking the helpless little gasp that fell from her lips at the contact. The bag was heavier than it should have been as she held it. His coat was off in an instant, and before she realized their hands were touching again, the weight was gone.

Occasionally Carlisle would forget to remove the stethoscope from around his neck. He went about the house like that, with the instrument bedded against his sweater, as if it were second-nature. Edward would joke to her that it made an easy strangling device if she became frustrated with him – all she had to do was sneak up behind the doctor and give a tug.

She laughed because she had been expected to laugh. But it didn't matter. Inside, Esme knew the only breed of frustration she would ever feel for the blond surgeon was far too sensitive to find relief in juvenile violence.

Edward knew everything that went on between her and the doctor. He knew that it had been a while since they had spoken to one another. They tended to let these lapses of time stretch between them, and they lingered on the West and East, tentative for any direct interaction when it was not required. It had nothing to do with bitterness, and everything to do with her feelings for him.

Because it was hard for Esme not to be nervous when she was in Carlisle's presence. She could often see the mischievous little cherubs that followed him when he was within her sight. They were always there, hovering above his head, tossing their ghostly rose petals into his blond hair and onto his shoulders, poking and prodding at him from all sides, their tiny hands tugging suggestively at the collar of his tunic, taunting her.

It became distracting enough to the point where she was hardly able to say more than "_Hello_" or "_Goodbye_" when he came and left.

In the meantime, her mind was plagued with so many insignificant questions. Did he not see how violently attractive he was? Did he not see how attracted _she _was to _him_? Did he not hear the exquisiteness of his own voice? Did he not smell the intoxicating teaspoon of heaven that was his scent? Did he not realize how indecently easy he was to fall in love with? Did he not notice how _everything he touched_ fell in love with him?

Loving a man was a foreign feeling to Esme. What she felt for Carlisle now held hints of the feelings she knew as a teenager when he held her bare leg between his cold, caring hands. It was that flighty, senseless feeling, rather like the sensation of being carried up the stairs in the dark. Limp, light, innocently exposed, dependent – the thrilling pull of gravity as it threatened to tug her downward...and the tiny drop in her stomach each time she felt his foot leaving the step below, knowing he would never let her fall, but savoring the tingle of suggested imbalance nonetheless.

Falling in love _was _like being carried up the stairs. It was absolutely wonderful, a little bit terrifying, and it demanded almost more trust than she was willing to give.

It was something downright dangerous in disguise as a beautiful problem.

Esme was thinking of this beautiful problem when she heard Carlisle call her name from the hall. His soft voice electrified her, and she shot out of her room like a lightning bolt to find him.

She saw him, after not seeing him for at least an hour or so, and when her eyes caught that flash of saintly blondness it sent an overwhelming jolt through her otherwise impassive body.

It was ridiculous, yet it happened every time.

Carlisle's belated invitation into his study made Esme smile wryly to herself at the irony. Delectable nerves tickled the inside of her midsection as he held the heavy door open for her entry and closed it behind them.

"Edward told me he showed you some of the paintings in here," he said, gesturing toward the walls.

She nodded with a shy smile, unable to tell if he was only being kind or if he was secretly bothered by their intrusion.

"I assume he's spoken to you about the Volturi as well?" he questioned.

She nodded again, her eyes flickering to the Solimena painting in the center of the wall beside the fireplace. "He said that you lived with them for a while. What was that like?"

Carlisle looked surprised by her question, but he gave a soft, empty laugh as he gazed reminiscently at the painting. "A Nineteenth-Century nightmare, to put it politely."

She laughed in uncertainty, carefully watching his eyes.

He shook his head. "Well, now I'm being rather harsh," he amended with a light smile. "It was…an interesting experience. But the life they offered me was not the life I desired."

"Yes, you look rather withdrawn here." She pointed to his likeness on the side of the canvas with a teasing smile.

He glanced critically at the painted golden-blond figure of himself and chuckled. "That's how I always look."

She seized the opportunity to study his appearance for a long moment of consideration. He kept obediently still and receptive, waiting for her appraisal.

"You don't look that way now," she countered quietly.

The corner of his lip twitched, snatching the distance out of a once distant smile. "Don't I?"

She shook her head.

They gazed at each other for a moment that felt like soft torture. Esme shifted her feet, hinting at her discomfort, but Carlisle's eyes were not easily averted. He continued to stare at her with a faraway look on his face, eyes glinting like delicate goldfish scales in the light.

"What is it?" she queried innocently.

"Forgive me." He shook his head with a distant chuckle. "Sometimes I cannot help but look at you and see the sixteen-year-old I treated so very long ago."

She bit her lip somewhat bashfully, and a self-conscious hand rose to swipe a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Have I not changed much?"

"Oh, no, you have certainly changed in _appearance_." His voice lowered slightly as if he were telling some dark secret. "It's just one little expression, or the way your eyes move...the way the light falls upon your face..." He gestured gracefully with his fingers, nearly sweeping them over her hair. She suppressed a chill.

"You must feel like we met only yesterday." She struggled to keep her tone above a whisper; her throat was being frightfully uncooperative at the moment.

"On the contrary, it feels almost _longer _than a decade to me," he said, tilting his head as he gazed at her thoughtfully, "and I can't pinpoint why."

Esme managed to produce a faint, lopsided little smile, wistfully high on the enchanting twinkle in his eyes.

"You mean to say that _our _first meeting feels more distant to you than your time spent in Volterra?" she questioned teasingly.

His gaze glimmered with amusement before he turned away, relieving the awkwardness between their stares. Carlisle still had a smile on his face as he casually moved toward the windows, and Esme realized he had simply chosen not to answer her question. It was a strange little habit of his, but she relished every one of his tiny eccentricities, and the delicately flirtatious curve of his lips as he passed gently over her questions was incredibly intriguing.

"I had hoped that we wouldn't discuss the Volturi today. Perhaps another time," he sighed as she busied herself with reading the spines of the books that lined the shelves. "But there _was_ something I wished to talk to you about…"

She looked over to him in interest, but he gave her no hints.

He smiled cryptically. "Please, sit down with me."

He gestured her to sit in the velvet armchair by the large open window. Carefully, she walked across the room to seat herself on the edge of the cushion and crossed her legs, watching as he moved to draw the thick curtains back a little further. It was oddly dark for the afternoon, but even in the mournful gray tone of muted sunlight, she could make out translucent diamonds glinting on his knuckles as he tied the fabric back with the thin golden rope.

Esme straightened her back instinctively as Carlisle seated himself across from her, and she met the gentle blaze of apricot eyes for a suffocating second before she blinked defensively and turned her head toward the light.

They gazed out the window for a while in comfortable silence as the gothic glory of a thundercloud billowed overhead. Esme waited for the rain, but it never came. Perhaps it had been shocked dry at the sound of Carlisle's voice. Because all of a sudden he was speaking, and he told her things she had not expected him to tell her. Personal things.

He was born in England... Mid 17th Century England.

She had known he'd at least been around since the beginning of the 1800s, but Edward had never revealed the doctor's true date of birth. It baffled her just thinking of the things Carlisle must have seen, the history he could have recounted firsthand... As if he were not already fascinating enough.

He saw the way she was staring at him as he told her his birth date, and he chuckled softly, the pleasant sound pressing her heart to a fine powder.

That was hardly ancient, he assured her. He had known vampires from the Dark Ages. He had known vampires who watched the fall of the Roman Empire. He had known vampires who witnessed the Ten Plagues of Egypt.

It would have taken much less than all this to make her hang onto his every word.

Her eyes were hopelessly glued to his lips as he spoke, watching the subtle ways they twisted and pressed to form the words – soft, pliant, precise. His head would bow slightly on occasion, and if his gaze fell to his lap, she was safe to look upon his face more freely. His eyes became embossed when he turned them downcast, in a way that made them almost glow beneath the fine shade of his lashes.

Tentative though he seemed to speak on the subject, Carlisle softly revealed to her his memories from the night of his demise.

He had not been granted mercy that night, no chance to claim "sanctuary" in the church he had been born to lead. Every detail he remembered was clouded, save for the face of the one who had plunged her teeth into his throat and sucked the life from him. The female vampire's eyes had been enchanting, he remembered almost fondly. The raven haired villain had lingered in the smoky streets while the rest of her coven hid themselves, cornering her innocent human in broad moonlight. She had lured Carlisle into her trap with a voice like music – a crafty, tender hypnosis – until he was helplessly awestruck by her exotic beauty, her light-water grace. And that was when she attacked him. The recklessly compassionate young man whose duty was to purge the earth of demons.

Esme watched his face as his pale blond brows furrowed in thought. Carlisle had often wondered at how his assailant had been forced to leave the rest of his blood untouched, to leave her venom along with it. The nameless seductress was gone when he woke up, and a violent thirst remained in her wake.

He confessed that he had wished for hell above the arid terrors that plagued him during the first few months alone. There was little space on the earth where he could escape the hints of that tempting aroma, but when the thirst grew unbearable, he made substitutionary exceptions that he claimed preserved his very soul.

"I dare to wonder sometimes what my father might have done if he had seen what I had become."

Carlisle looked so haunted as he uttered the revealing words. So ashamed. But this shame was gravely misplaced, for he was surely just as immaculate in his immortality as he had been when he was human.

Esme couldn't imagine anyone wishing harm to Carlisle for what he was, _especially _not his own father. But the way Carlisle spoke about the elder Cullen gave her the impression that for a pastor, he was not as loving toward his son as he should have been. It made no sense to her that someone like Carlisle should have to live his life without ever knowing if he was loved. It was unfair and unheard of. She could attest to this.

Made vaguely uncomfortable by her half-hearted assurances, Carlisle turned his interests in her favor.

"How do you feel about this life, Esme?"

Speechless as she was, she knew not how to respond. Her transformation had been equal in pain, but not equal in consequence to his own. She was given reason to be grateful for a second chance, but Carlisle had been given nothing on the surface.

With bravery, she looked into his eyes and told him the truth. Of all the others who could have thrust this life upon her, she could accept the nobility and sincerity of his intentions_. _She could accept _him._

"I have come to accept what I have been given," she said softly, surprised by the steady tone of her voice. "I know that your intentions were sincere, and I hold no resentment against you for the decision you made."

The relief upon his face was palpable as she revealed this to him. "I must confess I often worried that my intentions were brash at best with regards to your changing," he admitted quietly. "It was foolish of me to believe you would _desire _a second chance when you had, if you'll pardon my forthrightness, sought death yourself."

She fidgeted uncomfortably, bothered that Carlisle had known about her suicide, even if he did not know the cause of it.

"Truly, I did not first desire_ death_… I suppose I desired _something else_ – anything else." She looked up at him significantly. "And that was what I received."

Leaning slightly closer to her from his chair, Carlisle shook his head with an almost-wince, his voice quiet but strained with disbelief. "It cannot be so simple to you."

"But it is." She smiled softly in reassurance, but she saw the way he was staring at her, and he was clearly not buying her reassurances.

His face was not blatantly disbelieving, though. Instead, his features were strewn together with intense interest, as if she were some strange breed of bacteria he'd just discovered beneath a microscope.

"You know that you can tell me anything, Esme," he said in a sweet, husky voice. She was startled by the intimacy of the words, and slightly disconcerted by the implication they harbored. "Any time you feel the need to talk about anything at all."

_What had he seen in her eyes to make him say something like that?_

Swallowing the tension, she nodded, shifting her gaze from his eyes to his lips. "I know that..."

Deep down she lamented that despite his acute senses, Carlisle surely never felt the tremulous warmth that blossomed between them every time they spoke like this, face to face.

But Esme felt it. Every time.

And that was why she could accept eternity if it meant being with him. Even if he did not love her the way she thought she loved him, at least for now.

But she could still imagine what it would feel like for him to carry her up those stairs. This staircase, for Esme, was a metaphor for love, a progression of her heart. It was a long and dark journey, but an exciting one that promised many discoveries along the way. She would only partake in this journey if Carlisle was the one to carry her.

He would support her weight effortlessly with every step in the dark; he would hold her more tightly, the tighter she held to him. His footsteps would be sure as he ascended each stair, even in the darkness. Her complete trust in him would not fade as he made his way steadily to the top. And when they reached heaven he would lock the door behind them, pocket the key so no one else could find them, and...

_For God's sake. _She was mad.

Esme would never be able to walk up the stairs properly again.

* * *

_**A/N**__: If you have ever wondered how Carlisle's feelings for Esme came about in my story, you can read "Chapter 3: No Way to Rush a Miracle" in my companion story, __**Behind Stained Glass**__. _


	16. Perfect Aim

**Chapter 16:**

**Perfect Aim**

* * *

Something about an individual's mannerisms fascinated Esme.

They revealed so much about that person, these repeated little ticks and reactions and habits. Vampires had them, too. Vampires were not entirely perfect – but it was that tiny stitch of imperfection that made them perfect. It gave them that brisk bite of humanity.

For instance, Edward still had an endearingly crooked way of walking, almost a limp. One foot had a firmer step than the other, which seemed to loosely drag along, giving him a stubborn but lazy sort of gait. It made him look more like the teenager he was, and it was lovely.

Edward also had a habit of burying his fingers in his hair, whenever he was nervous or bored or thinking of which note to pencil into his staff lines. Instead of staring straight ahead while daydreaming, he stared down towards the floor, as if silently critiquing hell while he thought. He sometimes narrowed his eyebrows for no reason, and he leaned against walls whenever they were available for leaning against. He did a curious thing with his left ankle where he would twist it slightly in and out if he was sitting in a chair for a long period of time. He didn't tap his desk with his fingers, but he did tap his chin.

Unlike his son, Carlisle had a carefully cultivated assortment of mannerisms that were much more extended and intricate. Being around humans so often had forced him to mimic the more subtle end of their craft, and after the slow press of time, he had simply made them into true habits for himself.

Esme was still intrigued that the doctor's natural way of walking was, in fact, a swagger. Only it was done with such class, such poise, that one would hesitate to call it so. He did make use of the "one foot directly in front of the other" principle quite well.

If he was standing without support while holding nothing in his hands, his left hand would press lightly against his stomach, and his right hand would curl against his hip in a way that just bordered seeming self-conscious. His stance reminded Esme of an escort waiting anxiously for his lady to descend the stairs at a grand party, preparing for the moment when he would take her hand. The first few times she had seen him do it, she'd thought it awkward. But as she noticed him doing it repeatedly, it looked somehow more and more controlled, as if he knew precisely when and why he was doing it.

Also unlike his son, Carlisle rarely touched his own hair. While Edward took wonderful advantage of the abundant bronze mess atop his head, Carlisle seemed almost hesitant to lay a finger on his own ironically vainglorious crown of blond locks. If he came close, his fingers would often brush the first wisps of cornsilk above his forehead, only to wither away in craven retreat. It made Esme wonder if the halo of an angel was actually hot to the touch.

When Carlisle was deep in thought he did not stare straight ahead, but he did not stare down at the ground like Edward did. The lids of his eyes would wilt in a tired way, and he would tilt his gaze ever so slightly upward. His hand would rise to his collar where his two forefingers would absently pinch and pull at the fabric. If he happened to be wearing his stethoscope around his neck, he would tug at the little cold silver disk. Sparing that moment to let himself drown in his thoughts was not something he often did; as a result, he looked all the more _utterly lost _to himself as he stared wistfully at nothing, eyes lifted at a tentative angle toward heaven. It was, in Esme's opinion, his most beautiful expression, second only to the notoriously integrity-crushing smile he wore so sparingly.

Not the conservative, pleased-to-see-you smile he gave her when she greeted him in the mornings. And not the almost-crooked, patiently amused smile either.

Carlisle had many different smiles. The one Esme would always blame for uprooting her dignity would have been better labeled a grin. She could count on one hand the number of times she'd really seen it; she'd always forget how deep his dimples really were until he gave her that smile, revealing the polished blaze of several or more white teeth. Against the pristine golden glow of his face behind it, it was a positively acidic white. A white that would have easily made any other man look _sinister_. But not him.

It was disarming every time she saw it, and it stopped her in her tracks. And so she simply stared at him.

He was fine for staring at.

Sometimes she wished that was all she had to do around him.

It was not the easiest thing in the world to be around Carlisle. No matter how much time she tried to spend with him, and no matter how much effort she put forth to be more social around him, it was still hopelessly awkward between them.

Esme did not have to wonder why. It was clear to her (and God forbid, to Carlisle as well) that they were simply too incompatible as a pair. He was a well-established gentleman, a doctor of medicine no less – a man with civility and a mysterious age of long-acquired wisdom behind his eyes. It made her cringe to imagine how she might have sounded to him when they carried out a conversation. He was centuries her senior and his sphere of knowledge was so far into the atmosphere of her comprehension that nothing she could have said to him would have any worth or satisfy any of his interests. He could pretend to be interested in what she had to say, but Esme was a smart enough woman to realize when her dull eccentricities were only serving to amuse rather than to intrigue.

In a way, though, she never had to be quite so embarrassed in that realm. As vampires, they all had their own stable set of eccentricities. Carlisle and Edward were just as eccentric as she, but in different ways. Edward was obsessed with his music, a kind of mad phantom behind his concert grand. Carlisle was preoccupied by all things medical and religious, and sometimes the two were combined in disconcerting ways.

Naturally, Esme had a firmer understanding of Edward's obsessions, being that if she had to pick her designated realm of eccentricity, it would be her artwork. Art just did that sort of thing to innocent souls, whether or not they were complete. Art was a vampire's attempt to complete whatever soul she had lost through her immortality. Art was a void-filler because it was simply expression in its rawest form. In a way, it was all they had.

Because Carlisle was the most capable of interacting with humans, he could have a life separate from the one he had at home. He could make connections to the outside world; he could tend to relationships with people outside his home. He could complete himself in more substantial ways. Edward had that as well, but on a much more distant level. He had his occasional classes at the academy under the guise of being a "self-taught prodigy", but he sometimes felt just as cut off from the world as Esme did. In this way, they at least had each other to share the melancholy.

Carlisle, however, had overcome that isolation from society, and Edward was especially bitter because of this. Esme was as envious in her subtle ways, but more for the control over blood-lust rather than the extended sense of company. At least Edward was_ known_ in town. As far as the baker and the blacksmith were aware, Esme did not even exist.

What bothered her even more than this was the way Carlisle did not seem to _think_ she might be bothered by it. He talked of building up control, but he never once offered implication to what might lie ahead for her once she reached that point. Would she join society in some way as he did? Would he expect her to interact naturally and make a place for herself as he did?

It wasn't something they had spoken about, but some part of her longed to have answers to these kinds of questions. He might not have mentioned it out of fear for bringing her hopes up, and while she hoped this reason was not the case, she could not deny its credibility. Whatever other reasons he might have had remained a mystery. Carlisle was quite an enigma. He could have been thinking anything behind those eyes. Their precious gold was made to mask whatever boiled beneath.

Nevertheless, Esme could not bring herself to introduce her concerns to him, at least not now. Occasionally she would force herself to endure a casual conversation with him, but mostly she kept to herself. There was no shame in spending time alone. If she had an eternity of solitude to look forward to, she may as well get to know_ herself_ better.

On a good day, she would have several projects running at a time. Between paintings and redecorating the rooms of the house, Esme managed to keep herself beyond busy. If social interaction took a hit because of the time she spent immersing herself in her art, she considered it a fair sacrifice. When she grew tired of her continuous project of refurbishing the ballroom, she stayed in the upstairs library and painted.

Painting was Esme's one true solace. Not only could painting take her mind off of reality, but it provided a vista for her to create her own reality as well. She had not been very fond of realist painting in her life; as a young child especially, she was more drawn to the fantasy paintings that often illustrated fairy tale books. However, with a keen eye that only a vampire could possess, she was able to see the everyday objects around her in a new and entirely fascinating light.

A carefully constructed still life of all her collected treasures lay aesthetically arranged on the corner table of the library, the glowing antiques basking in the light from the windows. Her head must have been in the clouds when she had picked the spot, because dash it all, that light would change every two seconds.

The items were arranged exactly as she had desired. The green glass bottle of perfume caught the sunlight just perfectly, even when veiled by the lavender lace of a single tea glove. The small oval mirror with the tiny crack lay, propped against the bottle, and beside it was the jade statuette of the Asian princess. Esme had scattered several pearls in front to give the entire piece a more feminine effect. Overall, she believed the composition was quite pleasing. But that did not keep it from being a nuisance to paint. In fact, it seemed the more beautiful the subject, the harder it was to transfer onto canvas. It was a relief that she did not have an audience to please.

No one ever had to see her paintings. "No one" being Carlisle of course, because Edward saw everything she would ever seek to hide.

After several days of working on still lifes, Esme made a bold upgrade to portraiture.

The painting she was currently absorbed in had begun as a portrait of her baby son's face. After several hours of fruitlessly pushing the oils around the canvas, it became clear that it was an ineffective pursuit trying to paint a face which she had long forgotten. Her brush continued to work nonetheless, and soon the anonymous male face began to take on strangely familiar features. By the time the afternoon rolled in, she was staring into the laughing amber eyes of Edward Cullen.

She stood back from the canvas to wipe her hands, and considered the likeness with a fond smile.

There it was again. That noise. Something like a demented woodpecker, one sluggish peck after another. She'd been hearing it all afternoon, and it was beginning to get on her nerves.

Esme rushed to every window on the second floor, searching for the source of the sound. Upon reaching her bedroom window, she spotted Edward's lanky form in the middle of the yard, oddly enough, with a bow and arrow in hand. Plagued by her curiosity as always, she stepped out over the balcony and jumped swiftly down to the ground to greet him.

"I thought I heard something out here."

He looked back at her with a small smile as he placed a new arrow in the bow and then took a second shot. The head of the arrow just nearly missed the circumference of the center circle of the target he had carved on a tree.

"You painted my portrait?" he asked in pleasant surprise.

"You don't mind?"

He shrugged with a happy smile as he viewed the image through her thoughts. "Not at all. It looks good."

She beamed.

His smile quirked into his signature smirk, and she knew she had gloated too soon. "Of course with you being the artist, it may just look better in _your head_."

She laughed genuinely. "Then you'll simply have to look at it yourself later."

"Oh, I will. We'll have our own _Salon Critique_ this evening," he conceded with a purposefully abysmal attempt at a French accent as he took another concentrated shot.

"I had no idea you had an interest in archery, Edward."

He flashed her a small smile. "Does it surprise you?"

"I suppose not," she conceded thoughtfully. "There are probably not very many things you _haven't _done by now."

His face was discreetly appreciative at her observation. "It can get rather boring around here, as you well know."

It was a loose presumption, even for her. Yes, she was bored much of the time, but it had more recently dawned on her that this boredom was rampant only in the doctor's absence. She hadn't had to notify Edward of this trend – it would have been obvious to him – but he was polite enough not to bring it to her attention.

He bent down and selected a new arrow with a green twine, completing a complicated order of little actions to place it properly before shooting. Like with everything else Edward did, he carried the crease of a diligent effort on his brow, his concentration notoriously sound and acute for anything that happened to fall into his hands.

"You have brilliant aim," Esme complimented as his arrow found a sure spot by the central circle. She was giving him an excuse to gloat, and already she could see that he was loving it.

"Thank you."

"Have you taken lessons?"

He turned abruptly and gave her an impish grin. "Carlisle taught me."

She stared at him silently for a moment in surprise, wondering if he was teasing her. It was just so hard to imagine the good doctor being armed with a weapon of any kind.

"Don't look so shocked. It's only for sport."

She placed both hands on her hips. "Mmhm."

"Women never approve," the teenager mumbled beneath his breath.

She fought back a giggle and shook her head. "Oh, I approve, Edward. In fact, I've always wanted to try it," she added a bit wistfully as he hit the center mark a second time.

"I know," he mused half to himself, sorting through the various arrows he had arranged on the ground. "I'm sure it makes you upset that such sport is not acceptable for women."

"Whoever said it wasn't?" she asked crossly, folding her arms across her chest.

Edward only snickered. "I did."

"I'm sure you're just afraid I might be better at it than you are," she hinted.

He sniffed nonchalantly. "Not likely." He held the bow proudly over his shoulder, standing up to his full height as he looked down at her. "Let's face it; you _would_ look rather silly shooting arrows in that skirt," he quipped dismissively.

"What a narrow-minded thing to say!" she laughed with a look of mock-offense.

He shot her another charming smirk as he prepared another arrow. "You'd best keep your voice down."

"You'd best keep your eye on that target!"

A faint chuckle from behind her sent chills up her arms.

Edward looked toward the back door of the house without a hint of surprise. "I thought you were busy."

"I was," Carlisle began amusedly. "Your banter was rather distracting."

Edward gave his father a lopsided grin of insincere apology as he held his bow up with one hand. "Think you can beat my target, old man?"

"Enough with that." Carlisle's voice was stern, but the warm smile he wore betrayed him as he accepted the bow from Edward's hand.

Edward appeared swiftly by Esme's side as they watched the doctor fit a new arrow to the bow. His brow narrowed severely in concentration as he pulled back the string and adjusted the angle of his shot. In that moment just before he released the arrow, he reminded Esme of some medieval war hero in a fantasy novel. There was a striking elegance to his form as he held the ancient weapon that sparked a fount of inspiration for the artist inside of her. For a moment, she wondered why she had neglected fantasy painting in favor of realism…

Not surprisingly, Carlisle was blessed with perfect aim as well.

He turned back to his son with an uncharacteristic look of conquest, to which Edward rolled his eyes.

"He just imagines that he's shooting King Herod," Edward whispered into her ear.

Esme giggled irreverently, uncertain of whether the comment was in jest or not.

"Oh, I'm not joking," Edward assured with a chuckle.

Carlisle gave them a glare of warning from his distance, and she gulped self-consciously.

"I think Esme would like to give it a try, Carlisle," Edward suggested brightly.

She blanched, turning to Edward in mild outrage, but he only smiled sweetly down at her, folding his hands innocently behind his back. Carlisle cleared his throat in slight uncertainty, but he called to her politely nonetheless, assuming Edward had read her mind and she was only too shy to ask out loud.

"Come on, then." He gestured to his side, and suddenly Esme wondered why she had thought the day to be chilly when she had first come outside. Vampires had no blood, so where was all of this warmth coming from?

And why had she even dared to have any interest in _archery_ in the first place?

With one last unappreciative shove at Edward's chest, Esme reluctantly crossed the short distance to approach Carlisle where he stood with a new arrow already in hand. The weapon he had been so freely handling before looked so much more intimidating up close.

She watched with great interest as Carlisle expertly nocked the arrow and assumed the proper stance. She was dimly aware that he must have been explaining the art of shooting to her, but it was so very difficult to concentrate on his instructions when her eyes were fixated on the taut chording of muscle along his back as he moved, the wrinkling of his shirt fabric as he shifted his shoulders, the tightening of his sleeves as he bent his elbows and stretched his arm…

And why should she not have noticed such things about him? He could never be harmed by an appraising gaze that, for all intents, was perfectly innocent. It was only with mild shame that she allowed her eyes to slide past his waist, and had it not been for Edward's presence, she might have let her stare linger just a tad bit longer when he turned his back to her.

By now, Edward had assumed his natural brooding position against the bark of a maple tree some distance away, watching the scene before him even more closely than the pair of hawks on the branch above him.

Carlisle's sudden question prompted Esme's diverted attention with a start.

"Now… Which hand do you favor?"

Her eyes were helplessly drawn to his right hand, then his left. It was a very hard decision to make, as they were both equally appealing.

"Hm?"

The corner of his mouth twitched upward as he lightly tapped the knuckles of her right hand, then her left hand with his finger. "Are you inclined to the right or the left?" he clarified.

"Oh." Her chest tightened in mortification, and she put forward her right hand. "Right."

"I prefer the right hand as well," he said softly. He kindly covered his smile as he swept her hand into his and positioned it properly on the mouth of the bow, murmuring discreetly, "Not that it matters much since vampires are all somewhat ambidextrous."

Her lungs seemed to shrink to half their size as he carefully arranged every single one of her fingers to his liking around the base of the bow. She wondered, in her listless lightheadedness, if he happened to notice the conspicuous quivering of those fingers as he touched them one by one.

The action he sought to complete was simple enough – to set each finger of her hand in its proper place so that she could learn. That was all he was doing. He was…teaching her.

But, Lord in heaven, it did not feel that way at all.

Every time his fingers collided with hers, it sent her heart tossing about in her chest. There was such _intention _behind every touch he gave, such purpose prescribed for each individual finger as he moved them one at a time. First the thumb, then the index finger, then the middle two fingers, and then the smallest… and such charity of choice he placed upon her smallest finger, showing precisely how much he recognized that it was the most delicate of the group.

She held tightly wherever he pressed her fingers to claim, afraid to lose one's place should he need to reassign them with a sigh. The trembling was a curse Esme had yet to conquer, and Carlisle's closeness was doing nothing to help her. She was only thankful that this reaction could have at least passed on as nerves at handling a foreign weapon. She was guiltily grateful for his lingering assurances before he finally let go of her hand.

It came as a slight surprise when Edward's voice chimed softly in her ear from his distance, "Your feet should be shoulder-width apart."

Even when Edward wasn't the teacher he was still a perfectionist.

Esme looked down shakily to adjust her feet, releasing a faint hum of a whimper as her shoe bumped lightly against Carlisle's. Self-consciously, she worried that she did look somewhat ridiculous holding a weapon while wearing a skirt.

"No need to be nervous now." Carlisle's accent was suddenly all too noticeable; in fact, it seemed the softer he spoke, the more prominent it was. "As you can probably imagine, it's quite effortless for us."

The lofty pattern of her breath stunted as his hand was suddenly on hers again, and he gently pulled it closer to him, taking the bow back with it to tighten the string.

"There's not quite enough tension..."

_On the contrary, Doctor..._

Edward's sharp intake of breath from across the yard echoed clearly in her ears, but she found herself incapable of glaring at him.

Carlisle was still murmuring behind her, "You should feel even more resistance."

_Enough resistance. Please, no more resistance..._

His hand dropped from hers, and quite suddenly she had no control over the device in her grip. Esme gasped as the arrow was released with a swift slice through thin air, and like magic, the head of the arrow met fine spot in the center target as if the two had been magnetically joined.

She sighed with disbelief as Edward's first arrow dropped from the target board in defeat, and Carlisle's jubilant laughter echoed beautifully across the yard.

"I daresay she may be a threat to your talent, Edward!"

_Oh, the irony. _

Esme looked apologetically to Edward, who, already in his brooding position, had now adopted his brooding _expression _as well.

She turned quickly away to find Carlisle smiling almost shyly at her. "Perhaps you are a natural after all."

The heavens were heavy in his eyes as he gazed down at her, politeness just barely meeting the edge of prudent passion.

Esme was quite certain by this point that the doctor had made a life-long project out of trying to produce an impossible blush upon her sensitive cheeks. She feared that one day his endeavor would prove successful.

Without warning, a brilliant sun burst to life as the clouds parted above them. Carlisle squinted at the sky and pushed a hand through his cornsilk hair, utterly blind to the enchanting halo of gold that surrounded his body, and utterly oblivious to how badly she wanted to touch him.

Just one touch would have been enough.

Just an insignificant tap of her fingertip on his shoulder.

Just an accidental nudge of her hand against his elbow.

Just an innocent brush of her finger through the blond across his forehead.

Just a slight stroke of her knuckle against his jaw line.

Just a whispery caress of her lips against his...

His eyes suddenly blinked in her direction, their lemony glow twice as smothering under the sun's invasive rays. She did not make a scene out of ducking her head because that would have given the nature of her thoughts away. She simply smiled appreciatively, and that was all she needed to earn her a smile in return.

"Here, let me take that from you." Carlisle proffered his hand and Esme absently returned the empty bow. "Unless of course, you'd like to try again," he hinted with a playful gleam in his eyes.

Such mixed feelings she had about going a second time. While she feared missing the target completely on the next try, part of her felt it would have been worth it to have his hand around hers and his breath on the nape of her neck once more...

"I believe she should quit while she's ahead, don't you?" Edward cut in with a wry look of agitation before she could respond. He instantly appeared by Carlisle's side to swipe the bow from his hand and began nocking a new arrow.

Esme hung back, hugging her arms guiltily. She should have known her careless reactions would annoy Edward. Then again, it was his fault for volunteering her, so why was he suddenly holding such a grudge?

Carlisle wisely chose not to respond to his son and instead stood back a few feet, his hand curling against his right hip in that semi-self-conscious mannerism she found so endearing. He stuck to that position as he watched his son take several more shots until Esme's arrow had fallen from the target.

Edward wore a slightly more satisfied look now, even sparing Esme a smile when she further complimented his skills. Carlisle, however, remained uncomfortably silent the entire time.

Unable to help her curiosity any longer, Esme risked a glance in the doctor's direction.

She refused to believe that she had just seen the hasty relocation of his fond golden gaze from her face to the target ahead of them.

It could not have been possible.

* * *

_**A/N: **__Any archery players out there? I've always thought there was something very romantic about the sport - naturally, having someone you love try to teach you is even more thrilling. :) I'd really love to hear what you thought of this chapter._


	17. Speaking of Vampires

**Chapter 17:**

**Speaking of Vampires**

* * *

Early mornings were always somewhat saddening for Esme. While she could far better appreciate the subtleties of sunrise with her enhanced senses, the sadness of the event came from the looming inevitability that Carlisle would be leaving for the hospital once the clouds rolled in. She kept her sentiments to herself when she could, but it was perhaps plainer than she cared to admit. Edward was more than aware of her timely depression.

It was in the early afternoon when Esme caught a most curious scent wafting up to her from downstairs. She and Edward had been alone in the house for some time, and she'd thought it odd that he had not spoken to her once yet. Even odder was the fact that she had not heard more than a single note plucked on his piano the entire morning. She wondered what he had been up to.

Just as the thought crossed her mind, that curious scent again tingled in her nose, and at once she detected the source. Fire.

But it wasn't the smoky, delicate sort of fire scent that came from lit candles, or even the scent of blazing ash from the fireplace. It was a different kind of fire scent – a gaseous, toxic kind.

In a panic, she fled down the stairs to find where it was coming from. She had ridiculous plans to fill up the nearest bucket with water and carry it with her, thinking she might need to be a hero for the poor house should it catch fire. Dampening her spirited sprint was the perfectly relaxed chuckle of Edward coming from the kitchen at the end of the hall.

Esme breathed an angry sigh of relief as she tossed open the swinging door and found him by the central counter with an assortment of bottles, test tubes, and a lit Bunsen burner.

"What on earth are you doing?" she demanded, slightly furious at him for taking her initial hysteria so lightly. "When I smelled the smoke, Edward... You nearly gave me a heart attack!" Her hand pressed to her heart for dramatic effect.

"Impossible." He grinned.

She rolled her eyes as she hesitantly approached his strange set-up. Curiously, she picked up one of the bottles and peered into its musty glass. There were several very suspicious bottles that looked as though they could have been sitting around in some musty old cupboard for decades, and she couldn't tell what any of them were by their scent.

"Where did you find all of these?" she asked him as she shook one of the bottles, trying to guess what it might have contained.

"I gathered them from all over the house. I haven't a clue what most of them are. None of them are labeled."

She leaned closer to study a group of smaller, similar looking bottles. "These ones have labels on them..." she trailed off, aghast as she recognized the deep brown glass and round white caps. They were prescription medicines.

"Oh, those are Carlisle's," Edward informed her dismissively.

She choked a little.

"Are you sure he's all right with you using his patients' medications for a chemistry experiment?"

She tipped her head up to glance at Edward's face, but he only raised an eyebrow in challenge.

"Has he ever said 'no' before?"

Her throat tightened uncomfortably as Edward suspended a flask with his bare hand over the flame and watched the tiny bubbles start to rise from the bottom.

"Edward, I don't know if this is such a good—"

He interrupted her with a huff of exasperation. "I'm _bored_, Esme. Can you blame me?"

"No, but there must be a _safer _way to spend your time..."

"This is a _fantastic _way to spend my time." A rather eccentric grin spread across his face as he gave an enthusiastic flourish of the boiling flask, spilling some of the mysterious substance on the countertop. The liquid evaporated with a heated hiss, and Esme reached over his shoulder to steal the glass from him.

"Edward, give me that." He avoided her with a mischievous snicker, holding it high out of her reach. "Give it—"

"Calm down, Esme, it's not going to hurt anyone."

She stamped her foot and extinguished the burner. "For goodness sakes, you're going to burn this house to the ground!"

"That would be a _good_ thing!" he said with a grin of disbelief. "I'm sick of this God-awful town..."

She crossed her arms in displeasure and glared at him, feeling insignificantly small and hating it.

"Come on, Esme. I'll make it turn purple!" he laughed. "Watch..."

Still holding the flask high above her head, he snapped the lid off of one of Carlisle's medicine bottles and poured a decent amount into the clear bubbling liquid.

With a furious fizzing sound, the flask overflowed in a flood of bright magenta. He laughed hysterically as Esme squeaked in surprise, jumping back to avoid getting the substance on her clothing. Edward's entire sleeve was drenched in the stuff, but he didn't seem to care. She wouldn't admit it then, but seeing him as such a happy mess made Esme feel hilariously pleasant herself.

"That smells so awful." She wrinkled her nose, and he playfully held the bottle closer to her face. She swatted at his hand until he had mercy on her and set it easily down on the counter.

"What do you have against chemistry, anyway?" he chuckled as he carelessly rolled up his sleeve and swiped the most likely noxious acid away with his bare hand. There were advantages to having impermeable flesh.

"Nothing, so long as it isn't the kind that could potentially turn my house to ashes!"

"What other kind is there?" he asked with a twisted sort of laugh. For a moment she thought his question was merely rhetorical. But then she saw the way he was staring expectantly at her, a crooked grin on his face.

She thought up the preferable definition in her mind – the sweet clashing and tense meshing of one personality with another – the shy force to mingle, the awkward palpability that resided between two people of the opposite sex...

Edward's low laughter was in no way menacing, yet she could not help but see him as a mad scientist as his fingers twirled around the test tubes at intimidating speeds. "Your mind is one of the most amusing I've known, Esme."

"Should this be a compliment, Edward?"

He squinted his eyes and put a thoughtful hand to his chin. "Hmmm… Yes, it should."

She sighed her compliance with a half-hearted roll of her eyes.

Before he could duck his head, she buried her hand in his messy chestnut hair and ruffled the strands into fond disarray.

"You don't know how long I've wanted to do that," she giggled as he fashioned a childish expression of displeasure out of his sharply handsome features.

"Yes I do," he reminded darkly.

She could barely suppress the urge to wink cheekily at him before backing toward the door. "I'm going to tell Carlisle that you stole his medicines."

Edward was anything but threatened.

"I'm going to tell Carlisle that he and you have bad chemistry."

******-}0{-**

Despite having Edward's constant entertainment around the house, Esme considered it a fine shame that she still could not roam about outside unaccompanied. Even on the best days, if she desired a moment in the open air, she needed both permission and an escort. While this wasn't precisely a tragedy, she would have preferred to be alone during her little sessions of target practice.

Edward, ironically, was happy to watch her as she tried to improve her archery skills. However, he made it difficult for her to concentrate with all his chuckling at her poor attempts. It seemed her skills only worsened over time.

How she had managed to shoot so well on her first try was quite a miracle. While Edward credited it to a natural burst of "beginner's luck," Esme had to wonder if the presence of Carlisle's guiding hands had some direct influence on her skill.

"Trust me," Edward sighed after her twelfth unsuccessful attempt to hit the target board, "it has nothing to do with Carlisle's _hands._"

She pursed her lips defensively and threw him an ungrateful glance.

"Beginner's luck, I tell you." Edward smiled easily, his eyes glittering mischievously as he laid back in the grass with his arms behind his head. "Women just can't grasp the delicate genius of true archery."

Esme reluctantly surrendered, tossing the bow and arrow carelessly to the ground. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think maybe you're right."

She couldn't help but glower grudgingly at Edward's triumphant expression.

"Cheer up; you're still a vampire after all!" he said brightly. Unable to tell if he was being ironic or sincere, she couldn't help but take his words in offence. For the rest of the day Esme was disturbed by one word in particular.

Having to bear the label of "vampire" was not exactly a point of pride in Esme's personal opinion. While the superstitious myths surrounding their kind were often blown out of proportion or simply misunderstood at best, she still was not satisfied with the term itself. The word "vampire" would always share the same page as "monster" in her book, perhaps just a bit more elegant in its bearing. Less savage, more sadistic.

Carlisle and Edward were as civilized as any vampires could be, and because of this, Esme supposed her rebirth as an immortal was blessed thus far. She could have been a thousand times less fortunate in her entry to this new world, but the fact remained that she wasn't. She was lucky. Even as a human she had never known luck's fair kiss of fate.

Esme spent her day thumbing through any books in her library that had the words 'superstition,' 'witch,' 'monster,' or 'vampire' in the title. Over the course of the afternoon and well into the early evening, she had produced a sizable stack of discarded novels and anthologies from the floor up to the window. What had begun as a mild curiosity for more information ended more as an itching aggravation. She hauled those books into the closet and hid them snugly away, dusting her hands off with accomplishment as she headed back to a cleaner library. The rest of the evening was well spent, reading familiar nursery rhymes in her comfortable old rocking chair.

Several nights after her first invitation into the doctor's study, Esme was issued another, much less formal one. While she had been reading how the Queen of Hearts punished the Knave for stealing her tarts, a polite hand tapped twice on the door to her library.

"Come in," she sighed, closing her book to lay it in her lap.

The burst of blond caught her attention just a fraction before his face did. Carlisle easily pushed open the door and looked curiously in her direction. "What were you reading?" he questioned with a wry smile.

Self-consciously, Esme crossed both hands over the back cover of the nursery rhyme book, and for the sake of not coming off as some sentimental would-be mother in mourning, she shrugged noncommittally. "Nothing."

Carlisle looked from the book in her lap to her face several times before settling on a suave sort of grin she had never seen before. "Well, if there should come a time this evening where you grow tired of reading 'nothing,' your company would be most welcome downstairs with Edward and me."

Esme blinked awkwardly, not knowing how to respond. Carlisle only nodded once in acknowledgement before he closed the door behind him, leaving her to quickly and carelessly dispose of the book in her lap.

******-}0{-**

It was an ominous evening, with the makings of a thunderstorm gurgling along the black horizon above the lake. The yellow-green leaves of trees in the yard seemed to glow like bright gobs of oil paint against the backdrop of thick violet-gray clouds, and Esme could just imagine her brushstrokes mimicking the scene on canvas.

Typically she would have settled to spend the rest of the night in the upstairs library at her easel, painting the oncoming storm, but she gladly sacrificed her artistic muse for any time that would be spent in the study with Carlisle.

The strength of the storm quickly cut the electrical power to the house with an eerie, tapering groan. They were lucky that electrical lighting was not often used in this house. It was, after all, a "haunted" mansion, and such residences were more suited for the darkness of a few cobwebby candelabras to nurse a narrow hallway. Carlisle of course preferred candles to any other source of light (with the exception of the sun, it was clear), and Esme had quickly adopted an inappropriate level of fondness for all things candle-related because of his interest. She'd been lucky enough to find a few waxen stubs in the billiard room cabinets and some matchsticks in the drawers of the kitchen counter. She lit them for herself occasionally in her bedroom, and it made the lavish vastness of her dark suite feel less lonely.

When she walked into Carlisle's study that night, a few elegant candles were already lit in the room, stirring patches of pure red-gold light in any dark corner that was not graced by the blaze of the fireplace. The surface of his desk glowed under a strategically arranged trio of candlesticks of various lengths, two clearly more aged than the other. Her eyes took the liberty of scanning the cluttered desktop, most quickly identifying a magnifying glass, a blood-pressure cuff, and one of those tiny mallets used to check the reflexes in the kneecap. Curious man, he was, she thought with a discreet smile.

Edward alerted her to his presence with a soft clearing of his throat, and Esme had somewhat mixed feelings about him being in the room with them. With Edward, it was either more or less awkward depending on which way she approached her situation. If her thoughts were for the most part not embarrassing, then Edward was an ideal icebreaker for any tension that might present itself. But if her thoughts were untamed, his presence was a curse.

The boy hardly spared her a glance as she thought these things, accustomed as he was to her recurring concerns. He sat on the carpet in front of the fireplace, where the flames danced like exotic gypsies in the flu before him. Esme had wanted to sit by Edward on the ground at first, but decided it too unladylike a position. She safely seated herself opposite him in an armchair by the fire.

Edward began to speak with her amiably, and Carlisle's presence became a pressuring entity somewhere behind her which she could do so little to put out of mind. Esme spent the expected minute, thanking her mind's ability to catalog multiple distractions at once so that she could carry on a conversation and simultaneously surrender to the dulcet pulsing that seemed to pullulate within her whenever the doctor was around.

Whenever Carlisle was in the same room, the air became heavy and her lungs were labored just to breathe in his scent. There was a thick aura about him that permeated everything in her reach, which she likened to a sweet virus infecting all that stood in its path. Even if she could not see him, she knew he was there, and just _knowing _that was abundantly discomposing. His very mass and the space he took up obliviously harassed her, and with each step he took, the carpet sighed wistfully beneath the weight of his ankles. Every place he stood was hallowed ground.

When he finally passed into her peripheral, she saw that his chest was dressed in garnet-red cotton, and unlike the habitual cooler tones he usually favored, the color made him look more vampire-like; somehow so deliciously was also wearing the stethoscope tonight, draped innocently about his neck. He wore the precious device like a woman wore jewelry. It served as a decorative reminder to his occupation, though Esme doubted he kept it there for such superficial purposes. In fact, she was almost certain he simply forgot he was still wearing it, which was outrageously endearing.

As was routine, Carlisle casually began to converse with them, and the first few minutes were devoted to a lingering impasse where the words he formed were each separately revered in Esme's mind.

In the midst of flurried words in English, he injected a flowing phrase of fluent Italian, to which Edward laughed appreciatively. Aside from being miffed that she was not in tune with the private joke, Esme was pleasantly awestruck whenever Carlisle's tongue wove a foreign sentence into an otherwise natural conversation. It was disconcertingly effortless for him, and could almost be deemed a habit from the frequency with which he did it.

Oh, it was stimulating enough to simply listen to him speak. It didn't matter if she understood or even attempted to absorb the words he was saying. She could have let her ears savor his voice all night long and never grow tired of it.

But Carlisle was not a candle flame she could watch flicker for hours without making it uncomfortable, without hypnotizing herself into a dizzy spell of contentment. Circumstances were fair for him to suddenly turn to her with a raised eyebrow and chastise her with a defensive_, "This is not a show_,_ Esme." _Watching and listening and admiring were not options, at least not exclusively. For this to be a conversation, she had to contribute something as well.

Slowly, consciousness resumed its duties, and Esme tested the waters of the conversation.

They were discussing something scientific... Darwin... evolution...

Edward was always enthusiastic with scholarly debates. Esme had often pondered that the boy had no love interests, but the reason was plain once she saw how hopelessly preoccupied he was with knowledge. He might have married the encyclopedia if it was socially acceptable; though the piano probably would have been his first choice.

"We haven't yet studied Darwin in my philosophy class," Edward said despondently. "My professor thinks he's an asinine bastard."

Esme covered her mouth to keep from giggling while Carlisle pursed his lips with gentle disapproval.

"Darwin's theories do arouse conflicting viewpoints better kept outside of the classroom," he reasoned, always the religious mediator.

A short silence followed.

"How interested do you think Darwin would be in the evolution of a vampire?" Edward posed with a snide edge to his voice as he leaned his head casually back against the footstool.

"The evolution of a _vampire_?" Esme was attentive now. "Is there such a thing?"

She hoped not. That made everything so much more complicated.

Carlisle smiled a bit uncomfortably as he stepped closer to the fire and bent to shut the chained curtain.

"It is said that the vampire species, much like that of the human, has developed slowly over time in order to better adapt to its changing habitat. So yes, it would be considered an evolution of sorts."

She found this particularly intriguing.

"Which of you came up with _this_ theory?" Esme asked teasingly.

Edward snorted softly from his place on the floor as Carlisle merely shook his head, smiling. "The credit for this theory goes to mere mortals with a fondness for superstition and an irrational imagination."

"Oh?" She perked up, irreversibly interested now. "Tell me."

The devastatingly handsome face of the doctor was illuminated briefly by a stark flash of lightning, bestowing a cadaverous charm upon his sweet smile.

"I should warn you, some parts are a bit disturbing."

Esme raised her eyebrows then turned her gaze toward Edward who was stifling a grin behind one hand, his stunning eyes flickering mischievously in the firelight.

"You forget that I am a vampire as well, gentlemen," she pointed out.

"In that case—"

"Start with the caveman stage," Edward interrupted eagerly before Carlisle even had a chance to finish his sentence.

"Ah, yes." Carlisle swiftly moved to a nearby bookcase and produced a thick black anthology that looked to be quite aged. "I've come across a few illustrations of what vampires were thought to have looked like in their prehistoric form."

He thumbed carefully through the lime-toned pages until he came across the one he was searching for with an odd smile. "Here..."

He walked over to Esme's armchair and lowered himself on one knee beside her, holding the open book just above her lap so that she could see.

She gasped lightly at the gruesome black-and-white illustration before her, now aware of why he had felt the need to warn her. What stared back at her was a positively demonic monster_, _no part of the creature refined in the slightest sense. In fact, the term "caveman" would have been flattering when applied to the hideous thing on the page.

It was something like a hunched-over gargoyle with long black spines on its back and over the top of its head. Covered from head to toe in dark fur, it had beady slits for eyes very low on its face, which was consumed by a grisly snout for a nose and a foaming mouth full of knife-like teeth.

"Lovely, isn't it?" Edward remarked from the other side of the fireplace.

"Oh, it's horrid!" Esme pulled her hands away, not even wanting to touch the page with her fingers. "How is _that _a vampire?"

"The same way many Darwinians believe man is essentially ape. Like it or not, this monster is our ancestor," Carlisle told her.

"But it's only a theory," she protested, glancing up at him warily. He only arched an eyebrow, and her belly twisted.

"Would you like to see the next pictures?"

"Yes," she said all too quickly. She was surprised at her heightened interest despite being disgusted, but there was something intensely sublime about the macabre nature of it all, and she certainly was not ready to stop yet. Carlisle chuckled at her eagerness and turned several pages.

"This is the second 'link in the chain,' if you will. Some hundred-thousand years later."

If the first picture was a monster, this was a mutant – a slightly less beastly version of the former, with several more human-like features. Its hair was wild and black, covering most of its ghastly face which wore a frightening fang-toothed grin. Its eyes were empty sockets, wide and dreadful, while its hands and feet were clawed like a tiger's.

"For some reason, I've always found this one the most gruesome," Carlisle murmured in an almost secretive way from behind her. His breath tickled the shell of her ear as he spoke, and it made her eyelids feel as though they weighed a few pounds each.

"Show me more," she softly demanded, bringing one hand up to support the front cover of the book while he still held the back.

She distinctly heard him swallow as he turned to the next picture.

It was just as hair-raising as the last two, but more like a walking corpse. The figure was bony and deformed, with a skull-like head under long, stringy patches of black hair, and hanging ribs under sunken flesh.

"How bizarre," Esme whispered in sick fascination.

Carlisle exhaled against her ear again as he turned the page, and a satisfying shiver worked its way up her spine, under the perfect guise of a shudder of fear.

The corpse was somewhat fleshier in the next illustration, but with the same disconcerting empty-eyed stare and jagged teeth. Its hair was more wild around its head, like an inky black lion's mane.

"Ah, yes, I'm beginning to see the resemblance now," she teased softly with a pointed glance at Edward. He saw the image in her mind and rolled his eyes, with an impressive effort to avoid smiling. She heard the subtle strains in Carlisle's breathing, and knowing she had tempted laughter from him as well was enough to give her heart wings.

The next page was not a single picture, but a small series of four illustrated figures depicting the metamorphosis of a revolting corpse-like man into a devilish bat-like creature with horns, leathery winged arms, and fangs.

"You've probably wondered where the myth of vampires morphing into bats comes from," Carlisle hinted with wry amusement.

Esme uttered a dark, dry giggle before turning the next page herself, slightly disappointed to find it was covered all in words with no pictures.

She turned another page.

All words again.

"What language is this?" she asked quietly, suddenly upset that she could not even read the text or captions.

"Dutch," he responded swiftly.

"Can you translate it?" she asked with a timid glance at his face.

His lips pooched forward slightly in an adorable expression of thought. "Which part would you like to have translated?"

"_All of it,_" Edward mumbled beneath his breath.

She shrugged shyly and flipped through a few more pages until she found another image, this one depicting a more traditional Count Dracula model of vampire, complete with a billowing cape and aristocratic but distressing features.

"What does it say about this one?" She traced her finger across several lines of text beneath the illustration.

Carlisle leaned slightly closer, an unnecessary gesture on his part, as she recalled their vision was not impaired the least by distance. Esme held back her smile at his nearness as he proceeded to summarize the caption.

"It says the vampire in its 'living corpse' state is attracted to the scent of human blood...will also consume the flesh of humans after draining their blood...is allergic to sunlight and raw garlic...and experiences a reaction of profound pain upon confrontation with Christian artifacts..."

She looked up at him abruptly as he finished the caption and they shared an ironic smile. "I don't believe we're vampires, Doctor."

"It would not seem that way, would it?" he sighed playfully, slowly closing the cover of the book.

"While the theory of vampire 'evolution' is admittedly fascinating, I also think it's rather..." She looked at the ceiling, fishing for an appropriate word.

"Rubbish?" he offered helpfully, and in his native London accent it sounded so hilariously prudent, she had to laugh.

Edward coughed lightly, and they both looked over at him. "I think it's a brilliant theory."

She gaped at him. "_You_ think it's brilliant? The scholarly scholar?"

He smirked proudly. "Yes, I do. It gives evidence to explain the myths, _and_ it is consistent with Darwin's theory of evolution."

Esme looked questioningly to Carlisle.

The doctor tucked the book beneath his hand as he rose to his feet and gave her a reassuring smile. "I think it's nonsense."

She sighed with some relief.

"Though, I must admit there may be some truth in the latter mutations," he mused thoughtfully as he slid the book back onto its place in the shelf.

Edward sat up a bit straighter.

"What would those be?" she asked curiously.

"Well, for instance, why should vampires possess certain characteristics that are only a necessity to the human race?"

She cocked her head in question, and he clarified.

"Small, insignificant, strictly human imperfections. The bellybutton, for instance," he said with a delicate swipe of his fingers across his midriff.

There it was again. That invisible feather quill, tickling obsessively over the pit of her stomach, in relatively the same area where he had so briefly touched himself...

Edward tugged awkwardly on the end of his earlobe.

"Um..."

"Such things _would_ be unnecessary," Carlisle continued, "but as time goes on, our kind are more likely to populate, and thus more likely to have increasingly intimate encounters with humans. And so we _need _these traits to blend in."

Esme glanced over at Edward who seemed to be smiling riotously as the doctor justified the theory.

"So how do you explain the significance of our _current _appearance?" Edward asked wryly.

Carlisle took a deep breath and caught his eye pointedly. They both smiled then, and Esme felt awkwardly isolated by the exchanged glance.

"You seem to be implying the reason for why vampires are...well, _unreasonably attractive_ compared to the average human," Carlisle said softly, fondling the end of his stethoscope with two fingers.

Esme looked down uncomfortably for a moment.

"Because there's no denying the fact that we _are _beautiful," Edward gushed, mimicking Carlisle's accent with exaggeration.

Esme nearly chewed off her own lip with the effort not to crack a smile at Carlisle's expense. He did not look offended – only slightly irritated, which if possible, was even funnier.

"Would you not agree, Edward, that as the times become more advanced, the vampire would need some..._device _by which to lure an unsuspecting human into their trust?" Carlisle smiled politely, glancing back and forth between the attentive pair. "After all, before the Dark Ages we can safely assume that the number of vampires within any given population was at best scarce, and man was considerably more gullible...and more vulnerable."

Esme crinkled her brow, not certain she was following the point.

Edward enthusiastically explained for her, "Yes, yes. The vampire would acquire such traits as unattainable beauty and more human-like features for the benefit of being able to lure his prey in a more conspicuous setting!"

Esme shook her head at them in exasperation. "You two are no better than Socrates and Glaucon!"

They chuckled at her analogy, which warmed her slightly before she continued with vehemence, "No matter how much evidence you give me, I will never accept the possibility that I could have ever descended from something so...so..._beast-like_!"

Edward pushed back a fistful of his untamed hair and nearly cackled, the sound made hilariously sinister with the timely accompaniment of a flash of lightning. "Beast-like indeed."

Carlisle grinned down at his son, eyes twinkling with a similar sort of misplaced menace. They were enjoying this a bit too much. She was beginning to think they just liked taunting her.

Esme crossed her arms with a sniff, ignoring Edward's muffled sniggering from the floor.

The doctor's face softened redeemably as he sat behind his desk, in front of the rain-streaked windows. He leaned back casually in his chair, tapping the end of what looked to be a tongue depressor against the edge of the desk. Precisely how much he felt the need to advertise his occupation tonight was quickly growing comical, yet she adored him all the more for it.

"Not to worry, Esme," he sighed comfortingly. "I severely doubt you will ever encounter a being who would use such a crude term to describe you."

Under the congenial note of his joking tone, she plucked the pollen of a subtle compliment. If she was not entirely delusional by this point in time, Carlisle had just called her…attractive.

Though his face was partially obstructed by the arrangement of candles on the surface of his desk, she promptly found his glimmering gaze amidst the trembling flames and smiled, perhaps more drunkenly than appreciatively. The bright white flashes of lightning behind him fought pointlessly with the flickering candlelight over which was more flattering to his countenance.

A convenient grumble of thunder broke her momentary distraction, and she hastily turned away.

The look on poor Edward's face as he stared at the fireplace suggested he was considering an appealing invitation by which to throw himself into the flames.

"Perhaps you'd like to discuss the evolution of the werewolf now?" Carlisle suggested teasingly after the thunder had subsided.

"Dear heavens, no," Esme mumbled, utterly opposed to the idea.

He smiled to himself. "Don't worry. We'll wait for the storm to end first."

* * *

_**A/N:**__ This chapter was another really fun one to write. I loved exploring the dynamics between all three of them having one silly conversation. Who else thinks Esme provides a much needed balance to Carlisle and Edward's antics? :) _

_Thanks for reading!_


	18. Painting the Roses Green

**Chapter 18:**

**Painting the Roses Green**

* * *

No matter how slight it may have been, Esme noticed a change in the way Carlisle regarded her. It was not that he was behaving as casually as Edward might, but that he seemed less confined to himself and more forthright with her. Ever since their playful discussion of vampire evolution in his study, she was a bit more comfortable speaking with him, even in Edward's absence.

She was more than content to spend the night in his study, admiring his graceful pacing as he shared the remarkable depths of his knowledge with her. They discussed everything from blood preference to werewolves, and Esme soon discovered that the mythical half-breeds were certainly not mythical. While Carlisle had never seen one himself, he had no doubt that they did indeed exist, having heard very credible accounts from men he trusted.

He told her stories of strange and intriguing vampires he had known throughout the years. Esme's interests naturally amplified when the vampire he spoke of happened to be female, but this was thankfully rare. The more fascinating of his encounters were typically male, and fascinating they were, indeed. Some were wild nomads, wandering from place to place like gypsies. Others, if they chose to remain stationary, found an obscure dwelling to haunt in the hopes that an unsuspecting traveler would happen across their home.

The only other coven like theirs lived in Alaska – the Denali Coven, he called them. They fed on animals and interacted conservatively with humans. Carlisle had left footprints in the dust of many countries, but despite however irresistible Esme found him to be, he had not managed to convince other vampires that the abstinent way of life was the better choice.

"I only knew of one other vampire who could walk freely among people, but he was a follower of the scarlet path as well," Carlisle revealed to her one night as they were discussing the matter. "Rather like the Volturi, he was cultured and refined, and he took pride in being so."

She cocked her head in curiosity, sitting up a bit straighter in her chair. "How did he manage to kill inconspicuously?"

"Oh, he was part of a traveling orchestra," Carlisle said as though there was nothing remarkable about it. "They went from city to city, and so his killings were distributed without correlation."

"So he was a musician like Edward?" She played along, fairly sure he was teasing her now.

"He was the conductor!" he laughed enthusiastically.

"No!"

"Yes!"

She narrowed her eyes unappreciatively. "You're pulling my leg."

His lips fashioned a charming smile. "Would I pull the leg I once worked so very hard to heal?"

A melancholy tingle danced up her calf at the wayward mention. But he was serious.

"How could a vampire who feeds on humans be so controlled in a public setting like that?" she wondered.

"Some would argue that it is easier for those who do _not _deny themselves human blood to be in the constant presence of humans – given that they are well-practiced, of course," he pointed out.

Esme sighed. "I wonder why more vampires don't choose to live that way."

"Because eventually we would be caught for what we really are," he said wisely. "The nomadic way of life is the safest way for a vampire to keep his identity a mystery – unless of course you live as we do, and only feed on animals."

"Then what about your conductor friend? How did he keep his identity a secret?"

"He was very clever. Kept his distance as much as could. I believe he explained the red eyes as a genetic disorder, and I said before, he was constantly traveling, which made it easy for him to get away with many murders in a short period of time. It is truly amazing that he managed to go on for so long without being discovered for what he was. But he had his fair share of inescapable suspicions, as we all do." He smirked a little at the end, and Esme wondered what associated experiences Carlisle had with these "inescapable suspicions."

"I suppose he's retired by now, then?"

"Oh, yes," he chuckled. "But you must remember, back then it was far easier to remain out of the public's eye. I doubt he could manage such in this day and age."

"What was his name?"

"Maestro Victor Emile Sarvani," his accent made the name flow like liquid.

She pretended to think very hard. "I've never heard the name before, so he can't have been _that_ famous."

Carlisle turned his gaze heavenward in a fluid motion, and Esme realized this was the closest the kind doctor would ever come to rolling his eyes. "His fame was long gone by the time you were born," he told her with a notoriously patient smile as he rested one arm on the fireplace mantel.

"Did you meet him here in the States?"

"Yes, actually. He found his fame in Prague, but I first saw him in concert while in New Orleans."

Her head perked up. "I've just read a book about New Orleans. It sounds like such a wonderful city."

"It is," he confirmed with a smile. "It's almost magical, really. The people are what make it that way, I think." He absently touched the flame of the dying votive with his fingertip, his gaze a filigree of reminiscent golden flecks. "Very romantic, almost. But I was there in the 1800s. It was quite different then."

It was still jarring to her when Carlisle spoke of the "day and age" like it was such a fleeting thing. Every casual, _"back in the 19th Century…" _still made her shiver with fascination. Her mind conjured chimerical sequences of the blond doctor in the rainforests of the Amazon, the savannahs of Africa, the snowy peaks of the Alps, the exotic palaces of Eastern Asia.

"I wish I could travel the world as you have," she murmured wistfully, standing up from her chair to explore the bookshelves – a discreet maneuver to bring herself a bit closer to him.

With effort, he tamed a helpless grin. "Really, Esme. It's not as if I've traveled the _world. _That would be exhausting even for an immortal such as myself."

She averted her awe-filled gaze with a chary smile. "Perhaps not the _world,_ then," she conceded as she thumbed through an aged atlas.

"Mmhm."

"I would like to see Europe at least once, though," she sighed, placing the book back in its shelf and extracting another one without glancing at the title.

Carlisle responded with an airy sigh of his own. "In all honesty, Europe is rather overrated."

"This coming from someone who was born there." She smirked coyly as he looked over with one eyebrow raised in surprise.

"So I am biased, am I?"

She gave a succinct nod of her head, "I think so, yes." Her eyes then lowered to the illustrations of South American islands she now held between her hands. Each page she carefully turned over brought with it the faint scents of cocoa and lime zest, as if the book itself still held the ambient aroma of its birthplace.

Carlisle stepped a tad closer to her as her eyes skimmed over the brief text. "Well, then where would you like to go, _besides _Europe?"

"Somewhere exotic," she bit her lip, eyes flickering frantically over the page to name a place for her fanciful tropical excursion. "Rio de Janeiro, perhaps."

"_Rio de Janeiro_?" he repeated with a heavily amused grin, his eyes especially bright as they widened in the candlelight.

"Have you been _there?" _she challenged sweetly.

"No," he admitted with a laugh. "Another place from one of your books, I presume?"

As if knowing where she had randomly plucked the name from, his gaze dropped to the open book in her hands, and she bristled a bit, vaguely uncomfortable with the way he seemed to know her too well. "Maybe." She stuffed the book back into the shelf.

He exhaled heartily. "I shall have to take away your library privileges if your list gets any longer."

"It won't, so long as I get to visit _somewhere _in South America," she declared, tracing little shapes of the continent in the air with her baby finger.

She was suddenly acutely aware of him watching her as she made her whimsical illustrations, a soft smile on his face. From the corner of her eye she saw that smile grow steadily into a stealthy grin, and her insides twisted in unjustified delight.

"Have you seen this one?" he asked quietly as he carefully slid a rather aged book from its place on one of the higher shelves.

"I would guess not – I couldn't possibly reach anything all the way up there," she said with a laugh as he brought it down.

She watched his delicate smile as he thumbed through the first several pages. "It has a few illustrations of Rio de Janeiro... Ah, right here."

He turned the book around, placing it into her hands as he moved closer yet to stand behind her, looking over her shoulder at the pages.

Three carefully drawn pictures rested in her hands – little black and white windows to palm-dressed beaches with nothing but ocean stretching over the horizon. The artist in her almost envied the craft of detail embedded in each illustration, and the appreciator in her was contentedly lost to her imagination. She could nearly feel the fragrant island breeze wrapping itself around her body, even if it was something she had never felt before. She could almost feel the heat of a tropical sun blazing on the back of her neck...

But in reality that island breeze was Carlisle's breath behind her, and that heat on the back of her neck was the flush that warmed her skin at his closeness.

With a self-conscious swallow, she commented quietly on the pictures he had shown her. "It looks even prettier than I'd imagined."

His fingers crept over the corner of the page to turn it slowly. On the opposite side was a map of the South Atlantic off the South American coastline. "I believe those pictures were drawn from one of these islands." He indicated several small spots in the water with his index finger, his touch for each just as delicate, as if he feared the map may have held voodoo power in the real world.

As much as she wanted to keep talking about exotic islands and pretty pictures of black and white beaches, Esme's mind went momentarily blank as she became far too aware of how close Carlisle stood to her. She'd moved back just the slightest bit so her hip brushed against his, and that brief solid bump between fabric and skin and bone sent her chest aflame with simmering tension.

The breath she had been holding all the while pounced from her lungs and left her lips in a pert little gasp.

"What is it?" he asked in concern.

"Nothing, nothing." She shook her head as she closed the book neatly and traced her fingers over the shiny olive-colored letters on its cover.

"Oh, Esme... You won't always be a prisoner to your thirst," he said in his exhaustively soothing voice, clearly misunderstanding her sudden silence. "You will be able to travel and see new places just like everyone else."

She let her hair hang loosely over the sides of her face so he couldn't see her eyes, afraid that the prickling of tears would fall this time...but they never did. His hand came to rest on her shoulder, sending gentle waves of warmth into her heart.

"I just don't feel like I'll ever be ready," she admitted sadly.

"Edward is hardly ready either," Carlisle revealed quietly, obviously not caring that his son would have easily heard it if he were listening to their conversation. "We take it one day at a time."

Esme sighed with a reluctant nod as his hand slipped from her shoulder, and the weight instantly returned to her feet. Her fingers lingered on the curvy golden 'S' in 'South America' on the cover of the slim book in her hand.

"One day, Esme. We'll go there. Together," he said softly.

If she hadn't been standing right there in the study with him all night, she would have believed she was dreaming. Promising to take her to exotic countries was one thing, but saying it in such a brazenly tender timbre was quite another.

Her eyes flickered to his face in shock, but Carlisle showed no discomfort at the apparent intensity of his tone and what he'd suggested. Flustered, she tried to think of any desperate way to dry the dampness of intimacy that had befallen their conversation.

"Edward as well?" she asked hopefully.

"Of course Edward as well," he agreed with an easy chuckle. "You don't think me heartless enough to leave him behind, do you?"

Fighting the urge to duck her head in embarrassment, she instead joked fondly, "Well, he'd have to drag his piano along."

"He's strong enough, wouldn't you say?" Carlisle reasoned with a playful grin.

"Yes, I would say that."

Not a few seconds after their conversation had shifted to include the boy, the old house was promptly filled with the fantastical echo of sparkling concert grand keys.

Carlisle tilted his head toward the door. "I believe he overheard us."

Esme giggled softly, knowing that her amusement could not be hidden from Edward no matter how quiet she was.

The sparse light in the study at once grew even dimmer as they listened, and both their heads turned to the last living candle whose feeble flame had finally flickered out.

"I didn't realize it had gotten so late," she smiled awkwardly as Carlisle caught her eye.

"Yes, time certainly flies past while in the company of another." His face fell just a little as he said this, and her heart constricted sadly when she imagined how lonely the empty hours of night must have been for Carlisle before she and Edward came along.

"It does, doesn't it?" she agreed in a hushed voice, slightly enchanted by the way his eyes would have made an adequate substitute for the sunrise.

It was slightly suffocating, staring at this beautiful doctor in a perfectly dark room, with the distant sound of the piano glistening in the background. Yet, beneath the tease of restless nerves, she felt there was nothing more _natural _than being in Carlisle's company. It was strange to be alone in the dark with him, but it was...bearably thrilling as well.

It took a moment for Esme to remember she still held one of his books in her hand. He would have never asked for it back himself. If she had not bothered to hand it to him before she left, Carlisle would have let her walk off with it, and he never would have asked her to return it. He gave things away so haphazardly that even when he had not_ intended_ to give something, he gave it unconsciously.

It was a fantastically lovable "weakness" he had.

Little did she realize, the smile on her lips as she held out the book to him was disastrously fond and somewhat accidentally flirtatious. "Don't forget this," she almost whispered as she nudged the edge of the book against his middle. "You almost let me steal it."

As if suddenly awakened from a deep slumber, his eyes flickered down to where the book grazed his belly, and his hand rose cautiously from his side to take it from her grip with a mildly silly half-smile.

"Steal it?" he repeated, his voice disconcertingly husky. "Now _that's_ ridiculous."

"You never know who might be a thief, Doctor Cullen," she pointed out, surprised at the involuntarily teasing edge to her words.

He had no doubt caught it.

He shook his head, grinning, as he reached up to neatly slip the book back in its place. "Go on, then. I've kept you long enough." He waved towards the door with an apologetic chuckle and a glimmer of his eyes before walking back toward his desk.

No matter how ridiculous it might have been, she couldn't help feeling a faint sting of rejection at his polite words of dismissal. She would have gladly spent the rest of the day with him, talking about anything and nothing if only to hear his voice say new words that she had never heard him utter before. In truth, he could never keep her long enough...but he couldn't know that.

The next several hours passed like birds riding a breeze. Edward's feisty _tempo rubato _echoed in a delightful clamor of piano keys from the neighboring room as Esme paced thoughtfully around the house's impressive ballroom. The chandeliers had never looked more glorious since she had successfully dislodged every last cobweb that choked their crystal baubles. In the free, airy sort of light that came through the windows, the room was nearly ethereal. Her next plans were to scrub the tiles and the painted panels of the intricate gilded walls. In a matter of a few days, she anticipated their Renaissance radiance would shine through once again.

Esme's lips twisted in a frown as a lost little ladybug found its way into her box of painting supplies. She flicked it once with her finger to shoo it away, but its wings carried it safely back to rest on the floor by her foot. In a twirl of frustration, she tried to stamp on it, but she imagined she had only managed to make herself look foolish. She also imagined that pesky bug would have been laughing victoriously at her as it disappeared in a buzzing flutter of wings out the window.

With a huff of displeasure, Esme straightened herself up and dusted the front of her dress out of pure habit.

"Has my watch stopped working properly, or have you been in here since four o'clock this morning?"

She whipped around to find his beautiful blond face smiling at her from between the open doors, hoping he had conveniently missed her little struggle with the impish insect from before. His arms rested against each of the doors on either side of him, spanning the entryway – but she could not help the feeling that he was blocking her only way of escape.

One hand instantly flew to her forehead. "Oh, dear. Has it really been that long?"

Carlisle chuckled and dropped his arms from the doors. "It has… But I see you haven't stopped working the entire time."

She carefully watched his eyes as they surveyed the room, silently motivated to make certain that the walls would one day glow just as brightly as the gold in his gaze.

"These paintings may need some restoring." She pointed out several panels whose washed out nymph-like muses lay still under a veil of caked dust.

"Then it's very lucky we have you around." His eyes locked onto hers, all glowing and deep, and they made her feel almost ill in the most alluring way.

Esme beamed bashfully at the subtle praise. "It's not as if the ballroom will ever be put to use again, but it may as well look nice."

"Did you paint very much when you were…younger?" he asked delicately. His tone took care not to be prying, but it felt that way in her mind.

"I can't remember, honestly," she sighed sadly. "I know that there was a significant amount of time in my adult life where I had no time to paint. It was considered a leisure activity, and there was too much work to be done where I was concerned."

"Well you have all the time in the world now," he said cheerfully, a crisp irony to his oblivious tone.

She smirked wanly to herself as her eyes studied the floor tiles in silence.

"What kind of painting are you interested in?"

Her breath caught a little in her throat, off-guard at his question which indicated he was most plainly taking an interest in her. The uneasy swell of that gentle panic crept into her chest again, but she straightened up against it and answered honestly, "Classical, naturally. Some Romanticism…" She grinned furtively. "Of course I used to be inclined toward Impressionism, but with the tremendous amount of patience I seem to possess these days, it's not exactly my ideal style anymore."

He chortled appreciatively, and she could not help but be mildly impressed that he understood her joke. Carlisle must have been more cultured in the world of art than he let on. Most collectors of art were surprisingly not always knowledgeable about the art they collected; in fact it seemed they collected the _artists _themselves rather than the canvases they produced. But Carlisle was _not _"most collectors," and he certainly did not have to prove this to her.

"I remember when the Impressionists first exhibited in Paris quite well," he reminisced, his lips curving perfectly into that distant little smile he wore so brilliantly.

Esme suppressed a squeal of delight in favor of a polite but heavily interested gasp. "Oh, how fascinating! Did you go and see them?"

He seemed pleased by her eagerness, but kept it hidden behind that distant smile. "I did, after some time spent avoiding it because of the things I'd heard about their 'radical' practice. Of course you know that the public was very skeptical of their work in the beginning. They were mocked to the point of not being welcome in the Salon, which forced them to exhibit separately," his fingers absently adjusted his collar as his face grew thoughtful. "Out of sheer curiosity I eventually attended one of their exhibitions in Nadar's Studio while in Paris. Something about the impressionist style drew me to it in such a profound way. I think it has a lot to do with what you mentioned – no longer being able to see things with a fleeting glimpse as we once did while human," he mused.

She stared silently for a moment. He really _did _know about art.

It shouldn't have surprised her, but it did.

"Did you purchase any artwork from the Impressionists' studio?"

He shook his head. "No, but I did hire a young artist to paint for me exclusively for a few months. I had a home in Florence at the time, and he did several paintings of my garden. I still have them if you'd like to see them some time."

"I'd love that," she said eagerly, earning herself another pleased smile. "Have_ you_ painted before?" She had to ask.

He uttered a gasping little laugh. "In my mind, Esme. Nothing more than that."

She smiled helplessly at him. "You may be a brilliant artist, and you'd never know it."

Carlisle only shook his head, still chuckling. "I have no hopes of ever being accepted at the Salon," his eyes drew wistfully over the faded panel of paintings. "Besides, I'm quite content with my life as it is."

She looked him over carefully as he said the words, and she could not help but notice a subtle twinge of doubt in his voice as he said it. She passed it off as her imagination. As a revoltingly wealthy and handsome doctor who was destined to live forever and who undoubtedly held a reservation in heaven already, there was little left to dislike about his life.

A slightly uncomfortable silence fell between them as Carlisle fueled his concentration on one of the dusty panels as though trying to make out the painting beneath it. The particular panel showed a young lady in a thistle-colored ball gown, shying away from a man in a gray waistcoat who presumably had just asked her to dance. The scene had once been carefully rendered, but now the only things that withheld any depth were the bright scarlet roses that framed each panel's edges.

"What precisely is the subject here?" Carlisle questioned curiously, pointing to the figures whose painted garments had begun to flake off their bodies.

With an unnecessary squint, Esme stepped forward and attempted to decipher the story from panel to panel.

"I believe this young woman on the stairs is being asked to dance by the gentleman on the right…but she doesn't want to dance, you see? So she is trying to hide behind the two women in front of her."

Esme traced the faded lines of the subjects with her fingers as she explained it to him, while fighting the urge to find a few women she could hide behind herself.

"Ah, yes. I think I see it, now." He stepped back to take in the picture and smirked as his eyes fell on the timid coquette. "Appropriate subject for a ballroom, naturally."

Esme suffered through another tiny bout of breathlessness and tore her eyes away from his face before he could link their gazes.

"Yes."

"What about this one?" he asked as he moved to stand before the second painted panel.

Her feet reluctantly followed to stand slightly behind him, knowing very well despite the poor condition of the paint what the subject entailed.

"It is a continuation from the first painting. Do you recognize the same figures?" she tested softly.

He cocked his head. "Yes, but here…they're dancing?"

She nodded her head with a faint voice, "She has given into his request."

Esme watched as Carlisle's shoulders shook lightly in amusement, and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth, mentally pleading with Edward to keep his talented fingers from going anywhere near a waltz. If he had dared to play anything that would suggest the dance, she silently threatened that his precious piano would be at the mercy of her fists by morning.

Edward responded by gracefully drowning Rachmaninoff into the _Blue Danube_.

Esme tried not to groan out loud, while being sure that Edward at least heard her displeasure in silence.

She turned to look over at Carlisle, thinking the faint laughter she heard from him was only her imagination. His lips turned up at the corners as he glanced at her, and she tried not to drop to the ground in mortification.

He looked for a moment as though he were about to say something, but then decided against it at the last moment.

She wondered privately, if he _had _asked her dance with him, what she would have said in response. The situation offered itself under very indiscriminate circumstances. It was downright foolish for her to even imagine him requesting her hand in a waltz – things like that just didn't _happen. _But her mind became very silly and witless when he smiled like that; it was possible that she could imagine a great many foolish things in his presence.

Edward's hands seemed to relax a bit as she came to this realization, and she crossed her arms defensively over her chest.

"I'll be very interested to see how you restore these paintings, if you decide to," Carlisle said politely as his hand skimmed over one of the panel frames.

Little did he know, Esme had no choice but to commit to the project the moment he suggested it.

"I'm hoping to work on some of them as soon as I have the walls properly washed." She brought a hand to her cheek in consideration. "I will need some varnish though."

"I'll take care of it."

She was slightly surprised by his eagerness. "Oh. Thank you."

He sent her one of his torturously perfect half-smiles before turning his head in the direction of the doors in mild annoyance. "Is it my imagination or is he playing much more vigorously than usual?"

_Vigorously _was an understatement.

She squeezed her eyes shut briefly, willing Edward's enthusiasm to break under the pressure.

"I think maybe he's trying to get your attention," she offered hastily, relieved to have any excuse for Carlisle to leave before she became any more delusional.

"Hm." He narrowed his eyes in disapproval and swept gracefully out the door.

Her weight was like an entity that lifted when he was in her presence – whenever he departed, it seemed to enter her body again as soon as he was gone. Going from weightless to weighed-down in less than an instant was an exhausting repercussion that had taken much energy and practice to grow accustomed to. But she was doing very well.

Esme pursed her lips and gave the gilded panels a second, more critical look. She wondered if she really wanted to repaint such frivolous love games on those walls again… And those fluffy, oversized roses. How atrocious! What made roses the flowers of romance, anyway? What business did they have on her walls?

They would have to go.

But what could she paint in place of them? She imagined just some leafy green foliage with colorful birds and flower vines would be more appropriate, more…bearable for every panel.

With a decisive sigh, Esme took her chisel to the coy smile of the flirtatious wallflower on the stairs and began to scrape the paint away. The flakes of pink and peach wilted like tiny petals from the wall, making a frightfully satisfying snowstorm over her feet.

Tonight she would have to ask Carlisle for more green paint.

Lots and lots of green paint.

* * *

_**A/N:**__ I very much enjoyed writing this chapter, particularly the beginning when they were able to explore some of Carlisle's library together. If you picked up on the Rio de Janeiro reference pertaining to the location for a future "Isle Esme", congratulations! Let me know what you thought of the chapter overall if you can. :) _


	19. Flood Follows Drought

**Chapter 19:**

**Flood Follows Drought**

* * *

When Esme opened her bedroom door on Monday morning, a soft _thump _sounded by her feet. Looking down to see what had landed so lazily on the carpet, she discovered a very familiar looking book. She bent to pick it up off the floor, noticing it had been dusted off since she had last seen it. Also different was the small white slip of paper that had been tucked securely between pages 130 and 131, alongside the map of South America's eastern coastline. She smiled in delight as she withdrew the mysterious piece of paper from where it peeked out at her. On it was a neatly scripted note written in peacock blue ink:

_I hereby proclaim this book yours (meaning you did not steal it). _

_~Doctor C. Cullen_

Esme supposed the doctor's innocent gift of the book had started the tradition of leaving strange and sometimes comical items at her door, which was becoming almost a daily occurrence. It did not take long for Edward to join in their little one-way game. The boy would sometimes leave mocking notes or insincere gifts against her bedroom door. A few times Edward would write a hilariously rude note and sign it with Carlisle's signature (which was very easy for him to forge, having seen it so many times through Carlisle's mind). He had thought he could fool Esme into becoming angry with Carlisle, but what he did not realize from the start was that she could always tell when the note belonged to the doctor – it would be written in that very same peacock blue ink.

Somehow it made her feel like she was living in a storybook, finding mysterious gifts abandoned by her door day after day. The week-long bout of special deliveries had been both interesting and entertaining to endure.

Monday had started it all with _The Geography of South America. _

On Tuesday, Carlisle left a small white envelope holding one of the old book's missing pages, along with a note apologizing for the inconvenience and warning her to not even think about returning the book for being unsatisfactory. She giggled at that.

Wednesday's "gift" was a tiny brown spider in a jar with a fancy golden envelope from Carlisle's stationary placed beside it. Inside the envelope was neither a missing page nor a teasing apology, but a ghastly description of the spider's eating habits and a hilariously detailed schedule of its daily activities, as if she would be keeping it as a pet. She tossed the spider out the window and kept Edward's crude notes to laugh at later.

Thursday's delivery came later than usual. That morning she thought the foolishness had finally ended. But it was in the late afternoon while walking past her bedroom when Esme discovered the burlap baker's bag of one pound of powdered sugar lying innocently against her doorframe. A note had been rolled into the drawstring, with several instructions written in black ink:

_Step One: Open bag._

_Step Two: Gather sugar on finger._

_Step Three: Hunt down Carlisle._

_Step Four: Place sugar on Carlisle's sleeve._

_Step Five: Thank Edward._

She crumpled the note and stuffed the bag of powdered sugar into the kitchen pantry.

On Friday morning, Esme caught the scent of both her counterparts lingering by her door as she opened it. Beside her feet lay a pile of envelopes with either blue or black ink scrawled across their fronts. The closest to her door was clearly one of Carlisle's, and on it was simply her name, written in his familiar bright blue calligraphy. Strategically overlapping that one was a second envelope, and in fancy black script on its front was written: _"Read me first." _Over that envelope was another written in blue ink that said, _"Read the envelope with your name on it first." _And the fourth and final black ink envelope read in more hastily written script: _"Ignore anything written in blue ink. Black is easier on the eyes." _

After laughing for a good minute (and hoping at least one of them heard her), Esme gathered the pile of envelopes and carried them to her desk. As she had suspected, all but the very first envelope were empty inside. Inevitably, she opened the one with her name on it first.

_This morning's delivery was too large to place in front of your door. Please come down to the ballroom to retrieve it._

_P.S: Neither the spider nor the sack of powdered sugar was from me. _

_~Doctor C. Cullen_

A pleased and somewhat embarrassed smile crossed her lips as Esme raced downstairs to see what was waiting for her. She should have known the doctor well enough by now to know that he did not take the words "lots and lots" lightly. A combination of her ignorance and his generosity had resulted in one hundred glossy green paint cans on the ballroom floor. The color was brighter than she'd expected – an envious emerald of a green – but it was exceptionally beautiful against the gold of the wall panels.

Within a few hours, there was green paint everywhere.

On her clothes, on the floor, on the walls of the ballroom. In cans, in buckets, in trays, on brushes and dishrags.

Carlisle was suspicious as to why she needed so much green when the walls before had been mainly musty violets and deep scarlets and antique flesh. But his weakness for catering to her every whim, regardless of however eccentric that whim might be, had displaced any suspicions with a general interest. As he watched her furiously brush a base coat of green paint over the dancing figures in the very first panel, his mouth dropped open in shock.

"Esme! Good gracious—what are you doing?" Carlisle's eyes were stricken yellow orbs, adorably outraged that she had the nerve to desecrate such lovely and romantic artwork.

Ah, but that was precisely why it must be desecrated.

"I'm painting the walls," she said with a flippant gesture of her free hand.

"But...but...I thought you were only going to _restore _them, not cover them with—Oh!" He practically yelped as she splattered a healthy dose of vibrant green over the faces of a waltzing couple.

She turned to glance at him with an innocently carefree smile and a giggle for good measure. "Oh, but this artwork is _frightfully _dated. Trust me, I'm improving upon it." She punctuated with another generous splash of sleek green paint. She might have looked downright mad to him, but she didn't care. After _that, _Carlisle had given her all the space she needed, and that was really all she was after.

Lord knows, she could have never managed to paint this place with him hovering behind her shoulder the entire time.

Despite her skills of vampire speed, Esme could not harness the haste while making art. In the case of painting, it truly would have made her work turn out worseif she tried to go through it quickly, and so she settled at a human's pace while painting.

Ironically, she became even slowerthan a human while painting. There were just so many more details that caught her attention. It was entertaining, and sometimes infuriating, but so, so interesting. But this was a great part of the brilliance of painting; to rush the process only made a mess of things. A masterpiece must never be completed overnight. And already, she could see that it was going to take longer than she had anticipated to cover the entire perimeter of the room.

Edward had graced her with his presence for a few minutes that morning to watch her butcher a few more elegant faces. He walked in, dressed in a mint green tunic, coral pink tie, and coffee brown trousers – not precisely the most color-coordinated, simply because he didn't care about those things – but he would have been the most handsome boy in the state no matter what he wore. The first thing he asked was if she had enjoyed all of _Carlisle's _gifts that week. She only narrowed her eyes at him and responded with a polite _"Of course," _slapping her green paintbrush against the aged artwork.

Unlike the sensitive doctor, Edward had cackled with glee as Esme smeared green paint over the panels. In a pompous voice he remarked, _"Out with the old, and in with the new!"_ and after asking if he could do the honors for adding the second coat, he tipped his hat and left her with a cheerful farewell.

It was Edward's day to pick up the weekly bundle of mail at the post office, and the doctor had received an urgent house call just after Edward had left.

Esme was still painting in the ballroom at the time when she heard the telephone ringing, and her brush clattered to the floor at the sharp sound. The house was so silent that the slightest noise made her jump.

She raced to the sitting room just in time to watch Carlisle place the telephone solemnly back into its cradle. He barely spared her a glance of acknowledgement before he sidled out of the room, and she followed him blindly into the foyer as he opened the closet doors.

"Are you leaving?" she asked, hoping to mask the panic in her voice and failing.

He sighed irritably and she flinched, wondering irrationally if he was still offended by her ruining the ballroom's artwork with his generous gift of green paint.

With one swift motion he shrugged on the crisp white doctor's coat, and she watched as he gathered several small brown bottles that might have contained either medicine or holy water and pocketed them discreetly.

"I must go and see Annaliese."

"Who is Annaliese?" Esme's tone was shamelessly demanding – one would think she was an angry wife with suspicions of an affair – but he was making her mad with all of this rushing about and nonsense.

A sudden blast of eager sunlight flooded through the windows where he stood, sending the shimmering crystals of his skin darting all over the walls. His white coat glowed starkly, just nearly outshining his spectral skin, and she had never seen him looking closer to the angel he was. He scoffed as if the reaction had hurt him physically, and ducked under the shadow to continue speaking, allowing her heart to come down from its cloud.

"Annaliese is my patient. Rather clingy, but she is frightfully ill right now and she needs me often." He bent down to pick up his medical bag and his expression changed to one of apology. "I'm sorry that I must leave you alone, but you should be just fine for several hours at most. I promise I'll return as soon as I can."

He paused by the door to stare at her with the most pained look in his brilliant eyes as she stared helplessly back at him, her lips parted in a plea that would never spill. It must have been quite an emergency for him to take off in the broad daylight for a house call, leaving her to watch after herself for an indefinite period of time.

"But—"

"I'm sorry, I must go," he whispered shamefully, and bowing his blond head, he walked out the door and up the drive.

She watched him until he had disappeared beyond the trees before she sunk into a defiant slump against the pillar in the hall.

Carlisle trusted her to hold out for the day on her own. Esme had not expected to avoid this day forever, but it had come much sooner than she had thought it would. Not to mention, she had so little time to prepare herself. It was just so unlike him to take off without warning like that. Nevertheless, he seemed to trust her. And by God, if _he_ trusted her, the least she could so was trust herself. At least for a little while.

She thought she would be all right. For a while, it was fine being alone – a little bittersweet having none of Edward's music while she worked, but bearable for a few hours at most.

Not much more than an hour after Carlisle's departure, she caught the scent.

Thirst for a vampire was nothing like thirst for a human.

The thirst she knew now was rather like a monster made of ash, clawing its way through her esophagus. It was the barren vastness of the Sahara crammed into her throat. It was her own personal Death Valley, parched dry by a violent fire. And if thirst was these things, then blood was the armored knight who defeated the monster. It was an oasis in the desert; a hurricane on the dry valley.

So rarely did Esme let her thirst go unnoticed for long. But when she was alone, she had no choice. She must never hunt unaccompanied.

It was easy enough to ignore on any other day, knowing she had the option to go after whatever lurked in the forest, but even the faintest fragrance of a fawn was enough to tempt her into submission when she knew she must deny herself.

God may have been testing her for all she had known. Perhaps He had become so bored with the dullness of her predictable day-to-day schedule that He had decided it was finally time to stir the crucible.

Esme's paintbrush clattered to the floor for the second time that day, spraying the tiles with vibrant speckles of green and staining her bare feet.

She tried at first to reach every room in the house and shut the windows, but it was a frightful waste of time and only worked to give her mouthfuls of sweet wind from the outside air. In a last moment of desperation, she fled to the cellar with her hand over her nose, collapsing beneath the staircase like she had when she was but a month old.

She kept herself from breathing and pushed herself into the cobwebby corner, sitting on her own two hands, fantasizing about rich scarlet oceans of blood as the thirst in her scorching throat grew unbearable.

She remained tucked away as she waited for the scent to pass, nearly sobbing with terror. One would think she was hiding from the Angel of Death, if only there had been the blood of a lamb smeared across the doorframe.

It was torture enough being locked in the disgustingly familiar coldness of the cellar that held so many haunting memories. She wished desperately that Carlisle could have been there, holding her back like he had before with his strong, tenacious arms, restraining her from whatever scents tempted her to the point of incoherence. But she had no one to hold her back now but herself.

It was perhaps an hour she waited there, but being alone made the time drag by like a turtle in the mud. Like counting sheep, she envisioned imaginary hourglasses in her head; she watched them turn upside down, draining their sands over and over and over. But time still refused to pass.

Her eyes glared blankly at the green speckles on her feet, trying to keep their brilliant ivy shade, but they only turned to red under her gaze.

There arrived a desperate span of several seconds where Esme feared neither Carlisle nor Edward would ever return to her, and the thought was almost enough to send her running after the blood herself...

But at once the vibrancy of the blood wore away, replaced by something thrillingly warm and familiar.

If relief were a wave upon the ocean's shore, she would have been crushed to pieces beneath the weight of it in the moment she heard him calling for her.

Every stalwart pound of his feet led him in the right direction as she listened to the satisfying thuds on the floor above her head. Down the stairs he came, one heavy footfall at a time, the delicious force of gravity yanking his ankles against the wood, and suddenly his presence filled the darkened cellar with a brilliant light. His ambrosial scent generously smothered the oxygen around her and she breathed freely once again.

She reached up for him with both arms, and shedding his white coat upon the floor, he took both her hands without a word, and started urgently up the stairs.

And when he pulled her from that room, fervently assuring her that he would have her thirst quenched immediately, she was positively starry-eyed by the suddenness of her rescue. His hand was strong where he gripped her arm, a calm but fierce determination about him that comforted her even while they flashed through the forest in search of that scent.

She was delirious as she raced alongside him, clutching his arm as the distant froth of his velvet voice promised her relief to her distress.

He let go of her abruptly in the heart of the woods, and she had to steady herself with the loss of stable momentum. The sultry aroma of blood infused her senses in an instant, and she blasted north, nearly in striking distance from the source.

Carlisle had reached it first.

With barely the grace to be less than stunned, she watched his impeccable slaughter of the bobcat as his knees slammed to the ground by her feet. His hand reached up for her, absently tugging her skirts until she fell beside him, and she let him guide her head to the incisions his teeth had carved along the thickest artery.

Her eyes went blank as the heavy rain of blood cured the drought in her throat. Carlisle pressed her closer, helping the silky sweet syrup gush more thickly around her tongue. She could not be bothered with embarrassment over the purring that trembled through her throat – with every long swallow, her gaze slowly lost its ruby cast. The only thought in the back of her mind was that soon she would be like him. Perfect.

She could faintly hear him speaking to her, his blessed voice hushed and husky, his hand splayed against the small of her back while she drank.

After the nagging of the first wave of thirst had been drained from her, she suddenly noticed his proximity. She felt the sweet, pressuring warmth seeping into her from his palm, her spine slowly melting like hot wax from the point where he held her steady – or where he _thought _he was helping to hold her steady.

Her lips loosely left the carcass, and he let it drop to the ground. He rose up to leave her there, just for a minute, and her heart flounced away after him.

Despite his rather crude actions of burying the carrion with his bare hands, he still resembled some sort of brave prince, tearing apart the forest to see that she was relieved of her thirst. He should have looked positively Philistine, but he looked positively perfect. The floury folds of his loose white tunic were stained sparsely with cherry red blood, giving the impression that he had been struck several times in the heart with a dagger – an appropriate bedizenment for a romantic hero. All that was missing was a sheathed silver sword to glimmer at his hip.

For once he showed vulnerable signs of dishevelment, from the tousled ends of his hair to the uneven tuck of his shirt. Such a state could only enhance his attractiveness as he quickly disposed of the lifeless hide and leapt after the second passing feline, his lean legs looking twice as impressive in those striking leather boots.

The reckless beauty of his patrician physique had distracted her from whatever sorry beast he had lambasted lifeless to the ground.

He fed her again, leaving none for himself. Never blind to the wistful rust in his eyes, she shyly offered him the remains of the blood she still desperately wanted more of.

But this was her only chance to sacrifice something. For what could she give him that would ever amount to all he had given her?

The grateful glow in his eyes as he accepted her timid offer almost made the sacrifice worth it. And if that was not reward enough, then watching him drink from the place her lips had previously occupied certainly was.

It looked like he was kissing the kill.

Her thirst returned as she watched his precious lips sip the last of the blood. But the thirst was slightly different this time, dangling over the cusp of desire. If he had abandoned her in the forest right then, she would have lunged once again upon the deep marks his teeth had left behind, hoping for even the tiniest taste of his exotic venom.

But he did not leave her after he'd finished drinking the blood. He made sure that the carcass had vanished, along with the tempting pearly droplets of his sweet venom that still clung to its gashes, which she considered a perfect waste.

The contented quiet that inevitably followed feeding was almost insufferable. Esme curled her arms around her knees defensively as Carlisle cleared the mess and then he came to settle before her.

"You're still unhappy."

Her eyelids fluttered shut at the melancholy tone of his voice that was almost helpless. Just the pressure of his presence was painfully imploring.

He was whispering something softly to her, apologizing for leaving her, telling her that she was just shaken up from everything, and that he was here now, and they could go back to the house and everything would be fine. He was always saying that... _everything will be fine. _

She could have waved him off and told him it was nothing, but now that her thirst for blood had vanished, her thirst for his company was too great a burden. Carlisle was here, and they were alone, and this was the time she had been given to tell him everything she had wanted to tell him for too long.

It was not something she had planned to do. But the second his gentle hand collided with her shoulder, she was stung by a long-forgotten memory, clear as crystal, and she had to share her life with him. Carlisle had never asked the reason of Esme's suicide, being too kind and sensitive to impose such a forward question on her, most especially considering her fragile newborn state of mind. But now things were different. They were closer than they had been before, more than mere acquaintances. He deserved to hear her story, and she needed to share it with someone who would listen, someone who would care.

Esme sobbed softly through recounts of the abuse she had suffered, the things she had been forced to do and the things she was denied, the bitter tragedy whose cost was her child's life, and her own. These memories were still so faint, still seemed so unreal. It was almost like they belonged to another woman, like a storybook character who she could not help but sympathize with too deeply. Her human life was like a story she could only try to remember reading – and no matter how hard it was to believe now, she had not _read_ it, she had _lived _it.

No matter how vague these memories were, they still stung like razors in the back of her neck. No matter how long she had tried to suppress them out of ignorance or downright fear, she had to release them.

It had not been a mistake for her to reveal these things. Esme realized now that they had been meant for Carlisle's ears all along; she had only needed the courage to speak.

Speaking was not so difficult, but the weight of her words made it so much harder to look into his eyes – the eyes she knew would humbly radiate their fluorescent gold without saying a word in judgment. His quiet gaze was a bittersweet balm; his hushed voice a tender tonic to her heart.

For now it was enough to feel him beside her, to know that he did not fear contact with her, to know that she was cared for. Though she had not needed reminding, Esme remembered why her heart had been carried by this man since the evening they met. He was blissfully unaware of her feelings for him, yet he now knew her darkest secrets.

He did not seem shocked by these dark secrets, either. Perhaps he had suspicions from the beginning. Perhaps Edward had revealed the pitiful load of her human memories to his sire. Perhaps as a doctor, he simply had good instinct. It did not matter how he might have already known. Only the rawest sympathy glistened in Carlisle's ever-understanding gaze. He would spare no judgment on her. His tone was dense with soothing sincerity as he passionately assured her that she had not deserved any of it.

Esme let herself free-fall into the sound of his voice because she could not allow herself to free-fall into the solid warmth of his arms. She let it consume her and her fears with wonderful, piercing relief. She would let him see her cry again. This time it was even easier than the first.

There was a beautiful ravine inside of him, and all of her secret worries were floating down the rapids in safe, sweet silence. He was listening to her, drinking in her words without interruption, without a single breath to break her stream of confession. His eyes were anchored to her, steadying himself as the waves crashed around them, and he was still standing strong when they subsided.

Esme was quiet afterwards; having taken so much out of herself, she found that she had nothing left to say. It was alright to be silent.

Carlisle still spoke to her because he knew she needed to hear his voice.

She always needed to hear him.

She let him offer bittersweet promises of ultimate salvation while she slowly let down her barriers, her eyes trained furtively on the tender space of skin that showed just at the base of his neck. Lack of attention to the state of his attire had resulted in several subtle revelations.

There were three marks – three times he had been bitten by a vampire with the gall to demonize a pastor's son – violent evidence that tore the smooth skin on the column of his neck from just below his ear to the base of his throat. She cringed inside, imagining the pain he must have endured from the last scar, the one that was now protected by the simple gold cross he wore beneath his collar.

Esme realized too late when he had ceased speaking, and her eyes guiltily rose to his face where he had caught her staring at the forbidden site.

Though these scars were not her own possessions, she could see quite clearly that Carlisle was protective of them. After all, she had never seen them before; he had obviously taken great care to hide them well. But she could also see that they were shameful to him – that the wind most likely made them sting, and raindrops might have made them prickle, and sunshine probably burned them, and prying eyes undoubtedly pierced them.

Carlisle hadn't the heart to reprimand her, but he did not shy away from her gaze. He breathed evenly and let her look upon his deepest insecurity because she needed to see. She needed to know that she was not the only one with scars.

Esme averted her eyes awkwardly and folded her hands in her lap, vaguely aware that he had shifted his position on the ground so they were now face to face.

His tender words of concern interrupted her scattered thoughts. "How do you feel?"

"I feel...empty," she murmured wonderingly, still surprised at the relief she felt after everything that had just happened. Her emotions always seemed to run so high after hunting, but it really should have been the other way around. She should have felt free and light and content after drinking blood. For a few moments it _was_ like that, but then that strange instability would alter the balance of her heart.

Carlisle's head tilted toward her curiously, with all the sweet hesitation of a child who was afraid to peek under his bed. Her eyes quietly searched his for a few stolen seconds before he reached out to lay the back of his hand against her forehead as though feeling for a fever, and her lip curved wanly at the curious gesture.

"Sorry." He smiled faintly with the apology, letting his hand slip away. "Doctor's habit."

Esme looked down to her lap. "Once a patient, always a patient," she sighed under her breath.

Her doctor trembled with an airy breeze of chuckles, touching two fingers to her shoulder in a gesture intended to soothe, but all it did was startle. She stiffened at the light contact, and he carefully withdrew his touch.

"Your eyes are so bright," he murmured the words half to himself, causing her to look up again in shock. "From the blood," he explained with a shy but tender smile. "...Bright eyes."

_Bright Eyes. _Was that to be her new nickname, then?

For that exquisitely tense span of seconds, Esme thought she felt herself blushing. Then she remembered. She didn't have to blush.

Whatever blossoming redness that once would have risen to the surface of her skin could now swim in safety beneath her frigid flesh, and he could never see it. She could savor that swift stream of warmth all across her cheeks and around her slender neck, and he would never look upon the evidence of her embarrassment, or feel that intense but delicate sort of heat like she felt it...

"Are you still thirsty?" he asked her after a moment, and there was something in the way he said the word "thirsty" that made her secret blush deepen. Invisible, ethereal crimson flutters ran rich beneath her cheeks.

She shook her head, keeping her eyes down to indicate her wish for silence.

He was quite attentive to her body language, and she watched from half-closed eyes as Carlisle settled himself into a more comfortable position on the ground, just a bit closer to her than before. She let her eyes close all the way, folding her hands against her belly as she leaned her back against the tree and listened to the comforting rhythm of his breath for a much needed minute.

"Thank you for confiding in me, Esme," he whispered sympathetically after a while. She looked up gratefully into his flavescent eyes. "I'm only sorry it had to happen this way."

She closed her arms around her chest protectively against the cold breeze. "I shouldn't have tried to be so secretive."

He shook his head softly. "These things are hard to talk about."

His hand reached out for her forehead again, but before she could smile in amusement, his fingers brushed gently against her hair, and she realized at once that the gesture had not been the habit of a doctor feeling for fever... It had been entirely intentional.

It sounded like every strand of her hair was sighing as he touched them, like tiny contented voices in her head. The hidden blush was still there, flowery and feverish as the tips of his fingers tickled her tresses. It wasn't going away, and he was making it worse. Every precious embellishment of his tender touch only warmed her further in the most ruthless way.

The heavy, hollow heat that hung between them as he touched her with an almost affectionate hand was suffocating to her senses. And while it seemed impossible that he had not felt it as well, she saw no signs of the same astonishment in his clear yellow eyes. Yet the gesture was so genuine, so comforting, so considerate that it made her want to sob.

"You will never have to go through any of that ever again," he said in a firm whisper, calm eyes flashing.

She closed her eyes and leaned slowly and tentatively into his touch. His fingers lingered for a second longer, then like an unpredictable breeze, swiftly fluttered away.

Nothing hurt worse than when Carlisle was not touching her. Yet something inside of her heart could not bear his touch.

* * *

_**A/N: **__So Esme is able to open a little and reveal what she remembers of her human past to Carlisle - a first offering of trust on her part which will become vastly important later as well... _

_To read a private conversation between Carlisle and Edward entertaining a possible plan to kill Esme's abusive human husband, Charles Evenson, you can read "Chapter 4: Peace Not as Powerful" in my companion story __**Behind Stained Glass**__._


	20. Bright Eyes and Paper Flowers

**Chapter 20:**

**Bright Eyes and Paper Flowers**

* * *

_Come now, you little golden spot, just a little bit further... _

A slow smile crossed the lips of the sun's silent witness as the horizon woke with a blaze of glorious light, spreading its rays over a blanket of tranquil pink clouds.

It was no longer a strange occurrence for Esme to find herself in front of the window at the crack of dawn, ordering the sun about in her head. She watched it rise from the very first hint of blue morning mist, taking note of the fragile conditions of each cloud that parted way for the light. It made her so spectacularly happy to see clear skies in the morning, not only because she could watch a brilliant sunrise from her bedroom window. Esme knew that several hours of unprecedented sunshine would keep Doctor Cullen from immediately leaving for his shift at the hospital that Monday morning.

_There, now. Was that so difficult? _She silently asked the sun as it rested its peaceful, shining face over the treetops. She laid her head into the cushions she had pressed up against the bay window and watched the light continue, slowly ascending the towers of a distant black castle made from pine trees' silhouettes.

Edward had left the doors to his music room wide open since seven o'clock. A gaudy assortment of half-learned ragtime tunes filled the house with an imperfectly perfect and happy sort of ambience to complement her contented vigil.

Esme loved these kinds of mornings. They made their household seem so normal. And really, being a haunted mansion, on any other gloomy old day it would have been _paranormal_. She still tamed a chill up her spine while opening the door to an unexplored room. Even looking in her own bedroom closet, she sometimes let her imagination carry her away. In her fantasy world, there was an ongoing dramatic scandal between her phantasmal sisters, which Esme used to explain any missing accessories from her room. The ghost girls were jealous that the doctor gave her so many gifts. So, sometimes they ran off with things out of spite.

But Esme never let their ghoulish games get the best of her, even when they insisted on haunting her closet. With ignorant bravery she decided she would choose apparel fitting for this rare, sunny occasion, emerging several minutes later from her wardrobe with her small frame tightly decorated in a doll-like dress of dandelion yellow. The burnt scarlet of her eyes was an awful clash to the color, making the artist in her cringe. But dash it all, this was her favorite dress and she was going to wear it whether it flattered her eyes or not.

Before she could tie her hair with the matching yellow ribbon, Carlisle's voice called softly for her from down the stairs. He rarely called for her by sound was as appealing as it was surprising.

"Esme, if you have a moment, I could use your help with something," he said.

_Use her help with something? _

Unconvinced that Carlisle could ever genuinely need her help with anything, she lingered anxiously by the vanity for a few moments longer, nervously twisting the tiny ribbon around her finger as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Tilting the mirror back a bit to take in all of her appearance, she frantically smoothed the flawless tresses of her hair and tossed the ribbon decidedly back into the drawer, daring any ghosts who hovered secretly in the corner to steal it while she was away.

Determined not make Carlisle wait another second, she dashed downstairs and through the hall, expecting him to be in his study. But of all places, his scent had led her directly toward the dining room.

The doors to the usually neglected room were open in welcome, and Esme quickly approached the threshold to take a curious peek inside.

"What did you—"

She stopped mid-sentence to take in the strange and slightly shocking sight before her. The normally bare surface of the long mahogany table was strewn with layers of white and green tissue paper and several small bottles of brand adhesive paste.

"I have a ten-year-old patient with very severe allergies," Carlisle began explaining before Esme could question the mess. "She can't have real flowers in her room, so I've been trying to make these paper flowers to bring to her instead." He lifted the mangled attempt at one paper carnation to show her the current, unsatisfactory result of his efforts.

Esme could not chase away the lopsided smile of pity that crossed her face, nor could she ignore the overwhelming pang of adoration for her considerate doctor.

So this was how he had chosen to spend his time off from work?

Sweet Jesus, he _was _an angel. An angel with a medical degree.

"Oh, that's so...thoughtful," she sighed from behind her awkward smile.

"I'm afraid I'm rather dismal at it. I was hoping you could help me," he said with a severely sheepish grin. "Lord knows you're a much better artist than I am." His eyes twinkled, and she had to duck her head.

If he only knew how unnecessary it was to coax her into helping him. She would have done anything, quite willingly, for his benefit.

Charmed by the compliment nonetheless, Esme crossed the room to stand by his side in front of the table. "Of course I'll help you," she agreed easily. "How else would I thank you for the lovely gifts you left by my door all last week?" she alluded with a grin.

Carlisle chuckled bashfully at her comment, and for once it seemed he had no witty reply for her. In fact, _he _almost looked nervous. Almost.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed the doors that connected the dining room to the music room had been left open, and inside she could just barely make out the back of Edward's head as he discreetly softened the volume of his piano playing.

If Edward had any intention of listening to their thoughts or conversation, Esme found that she was fine with it. After all, they were only making paper flowers – a perfectly innocent activity if there ever was one.

Her eyes fell back onto the disorganized tabletop, and she began gathering only the things they needed.

"Do you have any—"

She did not even need to finish her question before Carlisle held up a small, slim pair of surgical scissors for her to take. She smiled to herself as she accepted them with a timid "thank you." Her lightning-fast fingers expertly sliced out several precise shapes from the tissue paper, with the production rate of a mad little machine.

She sensed a bit of hesitation in Carlisle's stance as he shifted his feet beside her, then he carefully pulled out a dining chair and eased himself down to watch her from below.

In less than half a minute, she was left with two perfect stacks of green and white cutouts prepared for pasting.

"Where did you come up with the idea for paper flowers?" she asked amiably as she began rolling the green strips into a stem.

"Oh, I just thought of it yesterday," he said airily. "Little girls are very fond of flowers."

Esme giggled in agreement as she brushed some paste on the end of the stem. "Many of them never outgrow that fondness either."

She could sense that he was smiling up at her, but instead of looking down at him, she conveniently deepened her concentration on the craft in her hands. Finished with the stem, she set it aside and began attempting to construct the tops of the flowers.

Her brow furrowed as she encountered a minor impediment.

"Is something the matter?" he asked suddenly.

"Well..." she trailed uncomfortably, studying the wilting white tissue paper with wary eyes. "I need something."

His head turned quickly to glance over the tabletop, wondering what accommodations could have possibly been missing from the selection at hand.

"What do you need?" His voice was intensely curious, and already eagerly indulgent.

She chewed the inside of her cheek and averted her eyes.

"I need to borrow your finger."

His breath caught awkwardly at the reply that he was obviously not expecting, but his voice was amused as he responded wittily, "Will I be getting it back?"

She shook her head with a coy giggle and leaned forward slightly to suggest contact. "Yes, of course, I just need to..."

Her voice faded away completely as Carlisle freely offered her his right hand and all five of his glorious fingers.

There was nothing remarkable about him holding his hand up, but because he was doing it _simply because she had asked him to_, she was suddenly almost too shocked to touch him.

His hand looked so fragileto her, only because it was free for her manipulation for these precious few seconds. But she knew too well that it was anything but fragile. One touch gave beautiful evidence for her claim as she reached down to gently select his strong index finger with a light pinch to his knuckle.

"Yes, this will do." Despite great efforts, she could not seem to raise the volume of her voice as his four remaining fingers curled down submissively to seclude her chosen victim.

With attentively delicate motions, she took his offered fingertip and used it to patiently wrap the white tissue around. He watched her ministrations with a wry smile as she fashioned petals out of tiny ruffles, circling several times around his finger before she had a full carnation flower. She carefully trimmed the edges and slipped his finger out from the center, quickly tucking the stem in its place.

"There," she appraised with a final drop of paste to hold it upright.

"It's lovely," he chuckled approvingly. "And much nicer than the one I made," he added as he held up his first attempt for comparison.

She bit her lip to keep from grinning. "Yours wasn't that terrible."

He glanced up at her with his eyebrows raised in doubt, and she let herself laugh.

"In the end, it's really the thought that counts," she mused quietly, tucking the stems of both flowers gently into his hand. "You're going to have one very happy patient, Doctor Cullen."

As soon as the clouds rolled in later that afternoon, Carlisle departed with his doctor's bag and a carefully arranged bouquet of tissue carnations. Esme had taken the liberty of wrapping the six stems in one of the embroidered gold napkins from the dining room cabinet, and just before he left, she doused each blossom with a generous spritz of her perfume.

Edward snickered at their sentimental enthusiasm like the emotionally reluctant teenager he was, and once Carlisle had gone, he asked Esme if she would like to spend the rest of the day practicing archery in the yard. In Edward's world this was really an offer for her to watch him show off. But the motherly pride Esme felt for Edward made watching him showcase his talents a genuinely appealing way to spend her time.

She feigned reluctance at first, but inevitably found herself curled up on the grass outside watching arrow after arrow strike the board as Edward teased her mercilessly.

"Paper flowers," he gushed disapprovingly, shaking his head with a grudging smile. "You know Carlisle's soft enough as it is. You'll ruin him with that sentimental nonsense."

"They were _his_ idea," she defended. "Besides, I was just being encouraging." She shrugged as she gently blew a small bundle of dandelion spores free.

"And that's the problem," Edward explained as he tugged the arrows from the target board one at a time. "You shouldn't encourage him with those things. You should have said, 'Sorry, Doctor Cullen, no paper flowers for you today,' and left him be."

She wrinkled her brow in confusion, tossing the dandelion stem at his foot as he walked past her. "Edward, darling, I can't tell whether you're being serious or if you're just teasing me."

He smirked uneasily as he looked down at her. "I am serious."

"I don't understand why you find paper flowers so offensive," she giggled in uncertainty.

He paused, an odd waver to his eyes as he looked away from her. "Carlisle's patients might become too...attached to him," he muttered, drawing the toe of his shoe in the dirt. "That's all."

Somehow Esme sensed that Edward was not being fully honest with her. However, she could not argue with his point, so she settled back without another word on the matter and watched him finish his target practice until it started to rain.

That evening when Carlisle returned from his late shift at the hospital, the scent he'd brought through the door with him was several steps closer to intoxicating – even more than it usually was. Esme was not normally stunned when he threw open the front door and prepared to take off his coat. This time, however, she was.

He greeted her as he always did, with utmost politeness and a generous smile, but even as he shifted his doctor's bag to her waiting hands and opened up the closet doors, she could not place where the mysteriously invigorating smell was coming from.

He hung up his jacket and sweater, chatting on about how much the little girl with Bronchitis had enjoyed her bouquet of paper flowers. But Esme could barely see straight as the enchanting scent swelled from somewhere very close to her.

Carlisle turned toward her with a knowing look on his face as he accepted the bag from her hands. From it he extracted a folded white lab coat and presented it to her.

The scent billowed around her like a field of summer wildflowers – a mouthwatering perfume – and it was coming from the right-hand sleeve of that wrinkled white coat. As she folded the fabric over in her hands, she saw the remains of an obviously aged blood stain on the cuff of the sleeve. It was not a large spot, it was very small – just a dried blossom of opaque maroon liquid. But it smelled like heaven on earth.

Her mouth dropped open as she stared down at the deep red splotch. Embarrassingly, she even considered bending over at the neck to touch the tip of her tongue to the stain. Thankfully, her control was not _that _dismal by this point in time.

It took considerable will to yank her eyes away from that beautiful red spot to look up at the doctor where he stood watching her carefully, as if he had been waiting to say something.

"I know you're wondering why I've brought you this," he said with a soft tone of caution. "I had a profusely bleeding patient a few weeks ago, and this is the coat I was wearing when I treated him."

Esme used his explanation as an excuse to glance wistfully down at the scarlet studded sleeve yet again.

"I want you to use this for practice. To build up your immunity," he told her as her finger slid curiously closer to the end of the sleeve. She jumped with a start as he gently caught her wrist before she could touch it directly. Snapped from her strange reverie, her eyes quickly returned to his face.

"I hardly have your attention, Esme," he admonished with a relentlessly patient half-smile.

She ducked her head, mortified. "I'm sorry."

Carlisle didn't seem fazed in the slightest. "This is why I want you to practice. Soon, you won't find yourself so transfixed at the sight of blood," he said with a careworn smile. "And with time, you'll find that even the scent will be easier to withstand."

She swallowed heavily and met his eyes again. "How do I practice?"

He let go of her hand to hold the bloodied sleeve himself. "Simple enough: hold it a fair distance to start out, and breathe in the scent for a few minutes at a time." He gracefully demonstrated for her before neatly folding the coat and placing it back into her arms. "Over time, you can bring it closer to you and attempt to restrain yourself from wanting to taste it."

He saw the wary strain of hesitation in her face and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "We all need to start out somewhere, Esme."

Unable to refute his sense in any way, she nodded complacently and carried the coat up to her room.

For a few days it lay untouched on her bed – patriotic white against the blue bed sheets, with that single spot of bright red. It taunted her terribly. She hated having to look at it because of that pretty, shiny cloud of blood on the cuff of its sleeve. Yet...that coat belonged to _him. _

She could not deny being a trifle thrilled that one of Carlisle's lab coats was in her bedroom. On her bed.

She wanted to touch it. Not because she wanted to be near the blood, but because she wanted to be near to him. In some intangible way, it might be like touching him directly. He had worn this very coat while working to help a poor bleeding man in the hospital. He had worn this coat while caring. He had worn it while abstaining.

She shuddered at those kinds of thoughts. They made her fear for the day when she would be expected to do the same. But they also made her appreciate Carlisle's quiet strength and his devotion to caring for humans even more.

One very early morning, Esme found the courage to step a bit closer to the coat on her bed. She had studied it thoroughly from the new distance, quietly intrigued by the crisply cut lines of the lapels and the tight black stitching that had been used to weave his name above the right breast pocket.

She wanted to trace the letters.

So much more than she wanted to press her nose to that stain of blood, she wanted to touch the tiny threads that formed his name.

She laughed silently at herself in her mind.

The very next day, she came close enough that she _could _reach out and touch it...and it wasn't so frightening anymore. Without even realizing it, the exposure had helped her grow used to the heady aroma of old blood. She hadn't touched the blood itself, but she had taken several deep breaths as Carlisle had suggested, and she felt little more than an irritating sting in her throat when she did it.

The scent had been sweeter than she remembered it being before. Esme hadn't been able to appreciate the pleasant, powdery sort of tang it had when she smelled it up close. But with just a few steps closer, she noticed the chalky white dust on the upper part of the sleeve.

She hadn't even needed a second whiff to know what the substance was.

Powdered sugar.

Bemused and embarrassed and slightly furious, Esme brushed the rest of the sickly sweet dust off the sleeve and onto her sheets. Then she tossed the sheets in forceful, flapping waves until all the sugar was on the floor. Once on the floor, she swept the offending powder into her hands and let the wind carry it away from her open window.

If those immature nurses dared to touch Carlisle again, she would...

Oh, dear. She wanted to drink their blood.

A dark grin of irony twisted her lips as she glared broodingly at the blood-stained white coat.

This "training" hadn't helped at all.

Little did Esme know, this had only been the easy half of a much longer and more intense process that the doctor had planned for her.

On a dreary morning near the end of the week, Carlisle approached her with a hopeful proposition.

"If you feel you're ready, I'd like to begin building up your resistance to the scent of blood as I have done with Edward."

He had looked impressively noncommittal, but Esme could sense the well-buried urgency beneath his calm façade.

"Oh." A stupid but amazingly helpful monosyllabic response was all she could muster.

He tilted his head casually, and his blond hair glinted in the light of the gray window. "It wouldn't be anything too intense at first – just some simple tests I've devised. They helped Edward a great deal when he was starting out."

This had softened her expectations somewhat. After all, if Edward had gone through it, how awful could it have been?

"I would be using human blood samples," Carlisle continued in his lovely doctor's lilt, "but being 'dead blood', they obviously wouldn't be as potent to you."

"Where would you be getting human bl—"

She paused mid-question as he blinked a bit guiltily and fingered the end of the stethoscope around his neck.

"Oh..." she trailed off, suddenly feeling the strains of an ill stomach. "I don't know..."

He bit his lip sympathetically, but stood up somewhat straighter to emphasize his insistence. "I do so hate to push you, Esme, but we've been putting this off for too long as it is." He shook his head in regret. "It would be wise to start sooner rather than later."

She looked down at her feet. "I understand."

"Have you been practicing with the coat I gave you?"

"...Yes."

It wasn't really a lie, but it wasn't necessarily the truth, either. Esme had practiced twice since he'd given it to her five days ago, which was not nearly enough. But she had enjoyed the scent a little too much to consider it "practice."

"Then you should be fine with the first few tests," Carlisle said with an easy smile. Despite his approachable disposition, Esme suddenly found him very intimidating as he picked up his bag and opened the door. "I'll be home a bit late, but we can start tonight."

The door whipped closed behind him before Esme could protest her readiness. Naturally, she ran to Edward, her greatest source of information for this "test" she would be made to endure upon Carlisle's return. She mercilessly hounded the reluctant teenager for details as soon as Carlisle was out of hearing range.

"What will he make me do?"

"Nothing," Edward snapped, exhausted by her repetitive questions. "He doesn't _make _you do anything. He will expect you to take responsibility for your own control."

"Oh, that isn't good at all," she muttered anxiously to herself as she pressed her hands to her belly and closed her eyes.

"Esme," Edward warned monotonously, "breathe."

She whisked around to face him where he leaned against the kitchen door. "I'm not ready, Edward. Not for human blood."

_Not for the blood of...Carlisle's patients._

"It's not going to be as bad as you think it is, trust me," Edward insisted. "It's old blood – cold, unappealing blood. At least it was when he tested me." His eyes grew dim and vaguely reminiscent.

"Did _you _succeed?" she asked secretively.

He stared at her strangely, and then his lips bunched together in a mildly offended manner.

"With time," he said stiffly.

She crossed her arms, wishing he wouldn't be so purposefully opaque.

"And the_ first_ time?" she pressed with a caustic stare.

He instead smiled comfortingly, ignoring her question. "Don't worry so much, Esme. You'll be fine." She narrowed her eyes at him, but he only shrugged. "What's the worst that could happen?"

_The worst that could happen...? _

Any number of embarrassing things could happen to her while she was in the presence of human blood. When she remembered the first few weeks of her experience with it, she had been reduced to nothing but a selfish animal. Going back to those days would be a nightmare that should be avoided at all costs. For Esme, to be in the same room with both human blood _and _Carlisle was a sure recipe for disaster. She refused to behave that way in front of Carlisle ever again. Especially now that her feelings for him consisted of so much more than just respect.

Seeing no way out of the situation she would certainly have to face, Esme decided to fasten her defenses by thinking ahead. If she would be expected to resist human blood, the best way to combat her thirst would be to get her fill before she walked into the lion's den.

Before Carlisle came home that night, Esme took Edward hunting.

It was not like any hunt before it – not the leisurely, stop-and-start stroll through the forest type hunt they usually took. It was fierce, savage, fast-paced, and frantic. Where Esme was usually reluctant to be too greedy while taking her kill, she let her instincts rule her actions entirely, even knocking Edward out of her way on several occasions where she felt it necessary.

It was not her fault that he happened to kill the larger animals. She was faster, and so she could catch the smaller ones. Her fill usually came from five or more slim deer and rabbits. Edward was a prowling type predator, sneaking up behind his prey for the clever attack. He was better at trapping elk, bobcats, and the like. Esme's tongue worked faster than her manners while hunting, and she had "accidentally" drained the entire feast Edward had killed for himself.

At first he was able to curb his irritation with her, but as the evening pressed on, he became downright furious. She apologized for her enthusiasm, explaining what she thought were commendable reasons for being so gluttonous on this particular night, but he wouldn't hear of it.

"Why can't you just trust your control, Esme? Do you really think Carlisle would make you do something you weren't ready for?"

His question was reasonable enough, but not convincing. He just didn't understand her desperation.

"I refuse to make a fool out of myself on my first test, Edward," she said adamantly as they made their way back to the house. "I want him to see that I've improved since those early days. But to do that I need all the help I can get."

To both their surprise, Carlisle had already arrived at the house by the time they returned. While Esme was suddenly stiff with reluctance to charge through the door, Edward burst inside with relief upon seeing the doctor had arrived on time.

"I'm going hunting up North," Edward groaned as he squeezed past Carlisle to open the closet.

"Well, now—I thought you just came back from hunting with Esme," Carlisle said, perplexed.

"I _did._ She drank everything I had hunted down for myself," Edward complained with an accusing glare in her direction.

Esme prepared to defend her innocence, but when she saw the nearly wicked smirk that had bloomed on Carlisle's gentle lips, her mouth snapped shut. Edward rolled his eyes.

"Well, then." Carlisle glanced at her with raised eyebrows, his tone conservatively impressed. Esme felt like a little child with her hand caught in the candy bowl.

That was the moment Edward made a mad dash through the front door, leaving them alone in the empty hall.

Carlisle looked thoughtfully out the door as his son ran off, then closed it with a succinct click. "So you stole poor Edward's dinner, then, did you?"

The lightness of his tone hinted that he was solely amused and not at all displeased with her. Somewhat at ease with the situation, she tentatively played along.

"More than once."

He laughed deeply, and the slightly husky sound was feverishly appealing. "Somehow I'm not very surprised, Bright Eyes," he murmured teasingly, hands tucked neatly into his pockets.

_Bright Eyes. _

A shameless shiver dripped down her spine. So he _was _going to keep calling her that?

It was absurd how delighted that made her.

"I take it you were preparing yourself for this evening," he guessed correctly as he closed the closet doors.

Her stomach clenched a bit in anticipation, but his indulgent mood kept her at ease – at least for the time being.

"We are still doing the—" she gulped inconspicuously, "—test tonight?"

She followed quickly behind him as he began walking in the direction of his study, unbuttoning his jacket as he strode through the dark hallway ahead of her. He pushed open the doors, and inside the spacious room it was as dark and quiet as a carpeted cave, with only a small bit of light from the hallway peeking in.

"It would be ideal to begin tonight, yes," he confirmed with a cryptic smile as he pulled the sleeves of his coat over his arms and draped it over one of the chairs by the window.

His tall silhouette crossed the room to his desk, and with a soft clink, the ornate tiffany lamp glowed to life. The warm amber light spilled intentionally over his chest, bringing the brilliant color of his clothing into her view.

The formal shirt he wore was a disturbingly appropriate deep red wine like the carpets, but even more striking against his pale skin. He was buttoned to the collar, but his tie had already been loosened...and suddenly she was watching him patiently tug it from around his neck. He was obliviously fascinating to her, just picking at his buttons, and adjusting his collar, and rolling his sleeves up to his elbows.

It was comical what just a little more flesh showing could do to destroy her composure.

Esme's hand began fumbling around for something to fan herself with, but then she quickly remembered two things. That there was nothing around that she could possibly use to fan herself, and that the heat she felt in her cheeks was an atrociously artificial heat that she could only ever hope to _wish_ away.

She felt a strangled little aurora of incompatible emotions just then. There was no cause for the sensation – at least none she could pinpoint. It was everything, really. Everything about this room, about _him. _The fact that the fireplace was big enough to hold both of them inside it, the way the windows only let in darkness and no light, knowing that his bookshelves held more than one book on exotic South American islands, the ancient oil paintings that seemed to move in the darkness, the random collection of sand dollars that he had placed in a green glass jar on the mantel, the eerie green serpent painted on that tiffany lamp, the seventy-two Byzantine icon palettes displayed on the shelf behind his desk, the twenty-seven turquoise nuggets he had eccentrically arranged by order of hue on the window sill, the sharp surgical scalpel that was lying casually out on his desk... The way every item in this room was a piece of history that belonged to _him. _

And the fact that he was the most beautiful thing she had ever laid eyes on, and he was picking up a matchstick, and striking it against sandpaper, and he thought candles were holy, and he recited psalms beneath his breath when he thought no one was listening, and he was in denial that he was a blood-drinking vampire, and he wanted her to be in denial too.

So yes, she supposed it was everything.

Esme lingered restlessly by the window where Carlisle had left his coat, watching as he began his usual path about the perimeter of the room to light several candles per corner.

"How long do you think Edward will be gone tonight?" she questioned casually in attempt to relieve the tension of the silent room.

Carlisle paused as he encountered a particularly difficult wick and pursed his lips in thought. "I'd say until dawn at the earliest."

Her throat tightened.

"All night?"

He ignored her timid query, and a strange look of determination crossed his face, making him look ever more handsome. "I want to do this without Edward in the house."

The sentence sounded so odd to her, and it took a few seconds before she realized why.

It was because he had said _"I want."_

Carlisle never _wanted _anything. Unless "anything" happened to be world peace or a cure for all human illnesses.

It shot fire against his character. It sounded unnatural for him to utter those words together. But he had said them tonight, and whether indirectly or not, they related to _her. _

He had just implied _wanting _to be alone with her.

And _that _was an implication worth hyperventilating over, regardless of needing oxygen or not.

"Come here," he requested from the other end of the room, his voice dreamlike and hazy to her ears. Her feet carried her to him against her will, and as soon as he looked up from his desk, she could not hide how heavily she was breathing.

His eyes furrowed with sympathy, and he placed his hands over her shoulders in what she supposed was meant to be a gesture of stability. "Relax..."

Overwhelmed by the warmth of his hands on her and the beautifully concerned expression on his face, Esme fumbled for any excuse to run away from the terribly daunting situation soon to come. "I don't know if tonight is the best time—"

He hushed her with a soothing smile. "You're making this much worse in your mind, Esme. It's nothing to be afraid of, I assure you."

"I haven't had the best experience with human blood before," she stammered, embarrassed that she even had to remind him.

"Not one of us has," he acknowledged comfortingly. "But we can take small steps to make it less intimidating for us."

She sighed with a nervous half-laugh. "I'd prefer_ tiny_ steps, Doctor."

He chuckled and tapped her chin with his finger, a fond sparkle in his eyes. "_Tiny steps_, then."

The light tickle of his breathy laughter must have efficiently dazzled her into submission, because not a moment later, she found herself being guided backwards toward his desk...

* * *

_**A/N: **__I had to split this chapter in order to keep it from getting too long! Read on to see what is in store for Esme's "blood test" in the next chapter. ;)_


	21. Blood Test

**Chapter 21:**

**Blood Test**

* * *

He had her elbow in his hand, and it felt so strange and so safe there, tucked between his fingers. She realized as he pulled her gently closer that she'd never been this near to his desk. She could smell the polish and wood, and she could see every word written on the paper documents sprawled across the shiny surface. Then he brushed them away with his hand.

For a second Esme wanted to squeak about how she had not been _trying _to read his patients' private information, but she had a feeling Carlisle knew that. He also knew how curious she was, and that she could not be helped for it.

Her eyes trickled upwards from his grip on her arm all the way to his profile. And she saw the sweeter half of a smile on his small lips – a smile he was trying his hardest not to encourage.

Her elbow melted in his hand.

"Stand right here – very still, now."

He positioned her to stand behind his desk, lingering so close to her. His scent was like lather over her body, having a strangely overpowering appeal.

His hands dropped from her shoulders to reach into his pants pocket. Before her, he produced a delicate looking vial of pure red blood. Inside the glossy prism of its small bottle, was a color as brilliant as liquified cherry. Her eyes devoured what her lips could not, and just the sight of the ruby fluid sparked a pool of venom in her mouth.

Even through the thin glass, Esme could smell its delightful potency, and she immediately realized that had been why he had smelled so delectable to her.

Carlisle stood calmly across from her, holding the crystal cap of the vial between his two forefingers almost tauntingly for her to look at.

"Human blood," she murmured absently, though it was quite clearly a fact that had not needed confirmation from either of them.

Carlisle nodded softly, never taking his attentive eyes from her face. "From a twenty-year-old woman named Bernadette – a mother, Esme."

Esme's lower lip dropped in surprise at the personal information. Carlisle had consciously swiped the intoxicating blood of its inviting anonymity; where it was once just another vial of nameless, faceless blood, she could now not help looking at it as if it were truly a _part _of someone. It had belonged to the body of a living woman – a mother, no less.

Why was he doing this to her?

Esme curled her hands around her middle and cowered a bit, her eyes retreating guiltily from the blood she had been silently savoring in her mind.

"I don't want you to open that vial," she murmured shamefully.

"I know," he sighed pityingly, "but you must take in the scent directly if you wish to make any progress."

"What are you going to do with it, Carlisle?" His name came out all whispery and accidental sounding when she dared to say it. She felt uncomfortable calling him by name, and she still avoided it whenever possible. But in a tense situation such as this, she thought by saying his name she might make him aware of her personal urgency. It was a fragile collection of syllables that she took care not to abuse. And so, in times when she needed it, it was truly effective.

He paused, his hand wavering slightly as he swallowed. "I can't tell you that, Esme. You're going to have to trust me."

Well, that was going to be disastrously easy.

She licked her lips in consideration, and after a tense beat, reluctantly nodded her consent.

Carlisle looked visibly relieved as he swiftly began preparing his desktop. Esme watched as he carefully placed the vial down first, then struck a match to relight a tall green candle. He slid it closer to the edge of the desk then placed a small, clear eyedropper beside it.

Her imagination conjured several possible uses for the innocent pipette, and soon her nerves had begun to eat away at her yet again.

She cocked her head, widened her eyes, and looked up at him questioningly – as if making herself look like a lost puppy might coax him into telling her what his plans were.

She hadn't expected him to flinch at her expression, though she caught a waver of something in his shining eyes. She could see the pretty mixture of playfulness and worry in his gaze as he stared back at her, but that did not prepare her for his next command.

"Now, I need you to... to close your eyes."

It was obvious that he tried his hardest to make his voice even gentler when he had to use a direct order. The resulting tone was _painfully _gentle, and it did nothing but make liquid fireworks in the backs of her knees.

He tilted his head down to look deeper into her eyes, his gaze the very definition of dream-like. "Trust me," he whispered.

And so Esme gave him her trust, and closed her eyes, and she was powerless.

Deliciously, terrifyingly, humiliatingly powerless.

In the cottony silence of the room, she felt his weight shift the air about as he moved toward her. His fingers tickled the edges of both her wrists, and before she could move her hands away, he had grasped them firmly in both of his. Her entire body tensed as he suddenly snaked his warm hands behind her back, and for that second, Lord bless her foolish heart, she thought it was all a dark trick of clever passion.

She thought Carlisle was going to pull her against him. And kiss her.

But he didn't. He gasped in disapproval as she let in a generous breath of shock, and he pressed her hands firmly behind her back. "Keep your hands here," he ordered. His tone was not harsh, but it demanded that she obey.

Quivering helplessly, she locked her hands against the small of her back and listened attentively to the soft steps of his shoes on the carpet.

"I think it would be best if you sit down, dear."

She stiffened as he moved behind her, pushing the large leather throne up encouragingly against her legs. The simple term of endearment chimed melodiously in her head, and as she bent her knees, she felt more as if she were sitting herself in a cloud than a leather cushion. The way his scent clung so heavily to the leather that now supported her body made the experience all the more heavenly.

She let herself fall back as far as she could into the chair with her hands still tucked behind her back. The fragrant stirring of Carlisle's movements ahead of her made her feet fidget, and no matter how she tried to keep them still, she only felt more foolish for her efforts.

She heard the distinct sound of him dragging another chair up to sit across from her. He sat himself down, took a deep breath, and then he moved his chair even closer to hers.

A tiny smile threatened the corner of her mouth, despite her nerves. She preferred him closer.

With the most helpful of her five senses taken away, Esme had nothing but to breathe and to listen. She could hear the clink of glass, and the plink of metal, and the hushed voice of fabric brushing against polished wood. She could smell the rich scents of vinegar and of roses and smoke.

Secretly she began to think this was more a test for her curiosity than her resistance to blood.

Esme wondered if Carlisle had decided on a whim to perform some sort of science experiment without her consent, and she came so very close to taking just a tiny peek out of one eye.

"No peeking, Bright Eyes."

There was a stern sort of smile in his voice when he said it, and she couldn't help but smile herself.

"I didn't peek," she defended, grateful for a mutual moment of amusing relief.

He waited for the velvet husk of his hidden laughter to dissipate before responding in playful accusation. "You were thinking of it."

He was so smart.

She breathed in deeply, and all of his movements suddenly halted. At first she thought she had done something wrong, and her back stiffened in concern. She wasn't even entirely sure he was still there.

"Carlisle...?"

"Yes." His voice was strained, slightly further away from her than it had been before. But more notable than this was that there was no question in his voice.

He did not respond with a _yes? _to imply _"What is it you want to ask me?" _He understood perfectly why she had punctuated his name with the question. His response was a solid and certain _yes _– _"Yes, I am here. Yes, I am still with you."_

But she asked him a question anyway.

"Should I be nervous now?"

Carlisle slowly released a long breath and all the tension that tagged along with it. "No. You should not be nervous, ever," he corrected softly.

It amused her to think he had no idea just how impossible that was with him sitting across from her.

There was silence again.

"You're awfully quiet... What are you doing?" she shifted in her seat, trying vainly to shake away the anxiety.

"Stop fidgeting," he sighed, sounding vaguely but fondly annoyed.

He made a lovely little noise in the back of his throat, then – too soft to be a whimper, but too robust to be a sigh. It was the kind of sound that lasted for too short a time; the kind of sound that could never be repeated with the precise perfection it had the first time it was uttered. She wondered why he had made it, and she wanted to hear it again.

If his intention had been to make her hold still, it had worked seamlessly.

There was a brief moment where Esme selfishly revisited the suspicion that the doctor was devising a trap by which he could steal a kiss from her...

But he quickly put an end to that dream.

"Stop breathing, Esme."

Her eyes came dangerously close to popping open in surprise.

"What?"

Even though she had heard him quite clearly, she considered what he had just said to be downright ridiculous, and thus deserving of repetition.

"Hold your breath," he whispered almost romantically, his voice slightly closer this time.

Her arms and legs felt inexplicably heavy as she took care to obey his command.

With only her sense of hearing left to gather clues, she wondered if he was about to cover her ears as well. But he left them alone for now.

Her chest filled with little sparkles as she felt a cool wave of scent-less air pass over her face, and she guessed he was checking to be certain that she wasn't looking. She bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from reacting in any way, and remained perfectly impassive.

There was more mysterious clinking, then the dolloping sound of liquid being poured into ceramic, and the hollow clop of an empty jar being placed on a surface. Shortly after the fragile orchestra of glass and droplets ended, Carlisle's breath became noticeably shallow.

Esme tensed with the anticipation that there might be blood in the air, but she could not know for sure when she was not allowed to breathe. Her lungs remained sunken and still between her ribs, but she was not going to move them until Carlisle gave her permission. She would do nothing without his permission.

"In a few moments, I'm going to tell you to open your eyes," he warned, and her muscles coiled in preparation. "But you must promise me not to breathe until I tell you to do so."

She nodded emphatically to every word he said, waiting for him to issue the final command.

"Alright..." he sighed precariously. "Open your eyes."

There was red.

At first the red was all she noticed, but she rapidly put together its general placement – his index finger, his hand, the broad open palm, the bare forearm, the cuff of his sleeve bunched together at his elbow.

Esme's helpless vampire eyes drew together like her archer's arrow to its target, and that tiny point of blood was like the center circle.

She was itching all over, inside her body, it seemed. Itching to breathe because she knew the newly contaminated air would be heavenly, but the thought itself frightened her. Just by holding her breath, she was truly holding onto the last of her integrity.

A chatter of ethereal voices pressed around inside her head, each of them more appealing than the next, and each was telling her to breathe in the blood. But she didn't. The wispy voices grew louder, but before they could seduce her into obeying their wishes, Carlisle's eloquent lips had hushed them with his first spoken word.

"On the tip of my finger is a single drop of human blood. You will not attempt to touch it, taste it, or even come near it. You will remain as still as you are right now."

With one more wordless, breathless nod, she agreed.

"You may breathe, Esme."

She had thought her lungs would cooperate all too willingly, but they were frustratingly reluctant at first. She didn't _want _to breathe out of fear. She knew what the scent would do to her – what it had once done to her – and the last thing she wanted was to allow it to assume control over her again.

"Go on..." All it took was Carlisle's sweet voice encouraging her, and her resistance was shattered.

She took a long, deep breath.

The air was like an ocean, rolling through her tiny nostrils. It was alcoholic authority and narcotic nobility. The prestige of incomprehensible senses. A scalding scarlet tranquilizer. Inebriating. Drugging.

She felt all her senses and something even more potent being pulled down a spiral of self-control. And just inches from being sucked dry of her sanity, the sensation zapped itself clean.

Her eyes pieced together the watery vision of Carlisle's finger burning in the flame of the candle. He was speaking to her in his hushing, mollifying voice... But for a few crucial seconds his words were just sounds. His face was just a handsome cumulation of colors and angles, and his eyes were... _Oh, but his eyes were still there._

He was staring into her, the dust of charcoal thirst tossed into the golden plates of his eyes. But he was still sane. He was still strong.

After a slow, slumbery minute, the sounds of his voice made words again. Esme's hands were no longer tucked behind her back, but they were clawed out in front of her, about a foot away from her throat. Her body was shaking, and her lips were dry and quivering. It was the most unpleasant feeling – like the helpless drop in strength and reason that swarmed the body just before fainting. All she wanted to do was wake up.

"Esme..." He said her name. Lucid, loving, and a little loud.

"Hmm?" Her hands lowered to her lap as she blinked away the last of her high.

"You're all right, dear."

Her eyes sharpened back to their crystal clarity, and she watched numbly as Carlisle yanked his finger out of the candle flame, only to douse it in a shallow dish full of what was certainly vinegar.

The scent of the blood was nearly extinguished.

"You did well," he remarked as he swiped his hand with a damp cloth.

She nearly scoffed at the ridiculous assessment. "_Well_?" she repeated in disbelief. "Good heavens, I thought I was going to lose my head!"

"But you didn't taste it," he pointed out with a soft, pleased smirk.

She paused with her mouth hanging open, about to protest when there _was _nothing to protest.

She had not even _tried _to taste it. She almost smiled.

He folded the white cloth into a neat square in his lap, then glanced over at her with a crisp gleam in his eyes. "Let's try it again."

She whimpered at the proposition, and he sighed.

"You will not improve without repetition," he said with a weary shake of his head.

She stared at the tightly sealed vial of blood for a moment of repulsion, but dutifully tucked her hands behind her back again.

"Fine," she whispered, turning her nose up and closing her eyes.

"You don't need to close your eyes this time," he suggested.

Her eyelids popped open in surprise to find his gaze trained on her face.

"I would like you instead to only hold your breath as you watch me place the blood on my finger."

She recoiled in hesitation, biting down on her lip. "What difference will that make?"

His eyebrows arched thoughtfully as he placed the folded cloth on the desk beside him. "You'd be surprised how much distress can be alleviated simply by being aware of what is happening."

"But I might be tempted when I see you open it," she pointed out nervously.

His eyes flickered back to hers, looking positively devious in the wavering candlelight. "Then you will resist the temptation."

A smidgen of a smirk set off the dimple in his left cheek, and she despised him a great deal for just that tiny moment. He knew it was not so simple for her – he _had _to know that. Not everyone could boast the level of control Carlisle himself did. But his expression softened when he saw the narrowed lines of displeasure in her brow, and he had just as quickly returned to his usual, charming self.

"You'll be fine," he assured her with a tight smile before he reached for the vial.

Her eyes never left his hand as she took her final breath and clamped her lips shut.

He watched her carefully from the corner of his eye as his fingers neared the cap of the vial. Then, delicately, he twisted the crystal knob to dislodge it, freeing the blood to permeate the air with its potent aroma. But this time, although she could see his every move, she was somehow less taunted than before.

He handled the small glass pipette just as gently, sliding it slowly into the mouth of the bottle until the tip touched the surface of the deep red substance. His fingers applied the slightest pressure to the plush top of the dropper, and she watched the blood snake its way into the tube with delicious viscosity. His eyes flickered to hers briefly as he extracted the dropper from the bottle, then looked down attentively as he squeezed a single drop onto the tip of his left index finger.

All of his tiny movements were so delightfully precise, dainty almost. His fingers moved and handled things with an elegance that could only belong to a well-practiced doctor. It fascinated her – every tap, every grip, every twist of his wrist – the way each mundane motion managed to look so tender, so full of care for the items upon which he imposed the pressure of his touch. He treated those tiny glass objects like they were the toes of a newborn infant – almost _lovingly_. There was something indecent about it that she could not quite put her finger on. It was wrong to touch bottles and medicine droppers the way he did. It was, quite distinctly...sensual.

She had never truly noticed the way Carlisle touched things before. Until he had practically forced her to watch him.

That was what he was doing right now, was it not?

He was forcing her to watch him touch things.

Esme's shoulders tensed, and she wished desperately that she had been allowed to breathe. She may not have physically needed air, but it would have done wonders for all of the tension she was feeling at the moment.

A little strangled noise hummed in her throat as he let a generous droplet of syrupy red liquid leak onto his immaculate ivory skin. She had thought it strange the way his lips parted as the bead of cherry touched his finger, almost as if he were tempted to taste it himself. But with a steady hand, he cautiously placed the pipette into the dish of vinegar and flushed it out several times until all of the blood had dispersed. Then he securely set the cap back into the vial, and placed his free hand on his knee.

The palm of his blood-tainted hand, like before, was open wide, but this time his hand was closer, as if offering the appetizing jewel on his finger to her...

Truly, the worst that could happen was that she could lunge forward and lick the blood from his finger. Simply knowing how humiliating that would have been, and how animalistic it would have made her, she could not keep herself from boiling with anxiety over it. Esme was in even more danger than she thought, because if she was being honest with herself, the motivation to _lick his finger_ was just as appealing whether or not it was covered in blood.

She literally winced at the thought because it was _that _terrible.

Carlisle's eyes studied her shrewdly for a few ticks of the grandfather clock, gauging her readiness before he whispered his permission for her to breathe once again.

Her lungs were not timid this time as they sucked in the air, but her head spun as the same persecution of sensation destroyed her sensibility. Her eyes felt as though they were watering, and her throat felt as though it was gagging, and her cheeks felt like they were on fire... but none of these reactions were possible.

A short grip on reality awakened her for a snippet of time, and for that exquisite second, she _had _her judgment; she _had _her dignity. She was nearly, miraculously, _lucid. _

But unfortunately she was not entirely articulate.

A slow, slurring "_Feels...dizzy_" was all she could mutter.

Although she could not decipher a single thing Carlisle might have been doing or saying, the brilliant flow of patience he emanated was palpable enough to calm her fears.

As the focus of her primal gaze shifted discreetly from the blood on his finger to the body behind it, the dynamics of the frightening sensation went through a distinct and thorough change.

Esme had not realized it the moment it occurred – all she knew was that suddenly her eyes were just as interested in the snugly clad chest in the chair across from her. Perhaps it was only a trick of the senses, that everything red in her field of vision was highlighted, and she could not help but to be preoccupied by the wine-colored shirt he was wearing. She was thinking that the color made him look intimidating; that it flattered the stripped white strength of his forearms and neck quite pleasantly. And that ruby morsel resting on his most hard-working finger only made _him _look all the more appealing.

There must have been a tiny magnet nestled under the flesh of her fingertip, and the tip of Carlisle's finger must have housed its polar opposite. His eyes flicked open with a fierce yellow spark as his gaze quickly snapped onto her rising hand. And before she had even remembered how to move again, those opposites had attracted.

There was no noise as her finger collided with his, in an interactive mirror of shock and tension. But the second she had touched the blood, his free hand caught her wrist tightly...and he was not afraid to show the extent of his strength.

They faced each other like that for an indiscriminate amount of time, both breathing in the desecrating perfume of their self-control. Their fingers still pressed in a sweet, slick red kiss, and the blood was positively burning between them.

But not one of these things was the most incredible to her. No, the most incredible thing to Esme now was that she was in that room, in her own body, in her own mind, in her own _control._

The surgeon's strict stare softened, as did his grip on her wrist. His right hand kept a firm but trusting grasp on hers, suspended in the air between them as he slowly came to realize that she was not going to fight for the blood. Tentatively, he tilted his head and regarded his counterpart in a new and appraising light.

There was just wonder in her eyes now. Nothing but innocent wonder.

And the miracles did not stop there, as she spoke with words that had meaning, words with sense and strength. "It's so..."

"Tempting," he finished her thought in a heady whisper, eyes clamped onto hers like a leech to its host. "I know."

The magic lingered shamelessly between them for a few breathless seconds, before he moistened his lips with a nimble flick of his tongue and pulled his left hand away from hers, placing his soiled finger safely into the candle flame.

"Here..."

Still slightly in shock, she gave a little jolt as he guided her blood-stained finger into the flickering flame as he had with his own. The burn of the fire was a foreign feeling to Esme. she had seen Carlisle do it countless times for his own languid amusement, but she had never been brave enough to try it on her own. It was a strange sensation – almost ticklish, in a rough, raw sort of way. It was hot, but not overwhelming. Prickling, but not painful. She liked it.

With the same loving touch he had shown the items on his desk, the doctor carried her finger from the flame to the bowl of vinegar. He gently dipped the tip of her finger into the acid, and its putrid burn was disastrously unpleasant compared to the soothing sear of the fire.

"That was exhausting," she gushed in quietly dramatic sigh. Carlisle released a dark but gentle chuckle as he reached into one of his desk drawers for a small brown case of old, elaborately labeled bottles. Esme guessed they were medical remedies of some sort, but she thought they more resembled toxic potion ingredients a witch might add to her cauldron. Carlisle selected the fullest of the group and gave the bottle a generous shake before opening the lid.

"Exhausting, you say?" he murmured in amusement.

She nodded innocently, watching a shy smile pry at his lips.

He folded the small white cloth and wet it with a clear, metallic-smelling oil from one of the potion bottles before taking her hand in his again, and meticulously scrubbing her finger dry.

He seemed lost in the amusing little world of his private thoughts as he patiently swabbed the scent of blood from her skin, and she could not help but enjoy the excessive attention he was giving this one fingertip. He hadn't needed to take such care in cleaning _her _– after all, she was no human, and certainly not as fragile as he was treating her. Perhaps he was so used to dealing with human patients that he simply couldn't help being too careful. Or, if she was being wishful, perhaps the care in his touch was purposefully designed for her, and her alone.

"Esme, the first time I performed this test on Edward, he bit my finger off," Carlisle revealed in a lovely, secretive lilt. "Literally."

"No, he didn't."

"He did," he assured with a beautifully encouraging grin. "With that in mind, I would say you did quite tremendously."

She smiled bashfully and turned to face the window as he finished cleaning her hand.

"Do I receive a present for passing your test, Doctor?"

His hands stopped moving over the desk, and he looked up at her strangely. His face was not surprised at all, but there were hints of amusement in the way his eyes squinted ever so slightly, and the curious tension in the way his jaw was set.

His eyes fell back to his hands as he continued scrubbing his own fingers, though he had completely rid himself of the scent some time ago. "A present?" he repeated uncomfortably.

She bit down on her lip and turned back to face him shyly until he looked up at her.

"Don't think you'll be keeping this, Esme," he teased with an understanding grin as he dangled the sealed vial of blood in front of her.

"I didn't say anything about keeping the _blood_..." she played along coyly as he fondly shook his head at her.

He hastily slipped the red vial into his pocket before clearing the surface of his desk. "I think I should keep this on my person at all times, just to be on the safe side."

As if _keeping it on his person _would discourage her from wanting to reach for it.

She smiled grudgingly at him while he poured the vinegar back into its jar and closed all the drawers. "Will I be taking this test again anytime soon?"

Carlisle looked up again in surprise, and for a moment she worried there had been a hopeful edge to her question. If there had been, his omniscient awareness had no doubt snatched it from the very wistful timbre of her voice.

"It would be wise to keep at it for a while...perhaps once a week," he told her diplomatically. "I shan't pressure you, though. The pace should be your choice."

He blinked at her curiously as she silently considered.

"I would prefer that we did it every _two_ weeks," she sighed reasonably, wanting to start out slow. "Is that fair?"

He softly blew out the candle on his desk and peered up at her with the kind of smile a hero would have worn when he saved the damsel.

"As you wish, Bright Eyes."

* * *

_**A/N: **__To read a conversation between Edward and Carlisle in which Edward confronts Carlisle about his developing romantic feelings for Esme, visit "Chapter 5: In Shades of Gold" in my companion story,__** Behind Stained Glass.**_


	22. The Prince of Perfect Timing

**Chapter 22:**

**The Prince of Perfect Timing**

* * *

Esme often pondered the concept of time and the ways it had changed now that she was faced with an eternity. Forever hours, forever minutes, forever seconds. Clocks and hourglasses, counts and beats. Everything depended on time. Time was dependent on nothing.

Nothing could stop time. It even strolled on while she was frozen in place, forever twenty-six years of age to her body, but her mind would continue to reap wisdom for ages to come. She wondered why eternity no longer frightened her the way it had in the beginning. Eternity still seemed to be a concept that did not truly exist. Naturally, to fear something that did not exist was foolish. It was the fear of the unknown that haunted her day after day.

Several nights ago Esme had found herself in the throes of a deeply philosophical discussion involving the Biblical interpretation of the great end in Revelations with Carlisle and Edward. She recalled several passages quite vividly, and each was more terrifying than the last. Carlisle's voice made the passages sound so hauntingly smooth, almost comforting when they were truly anything but. The unsurpassable trust that Carlisle had in God was palpable in the way he spoke. He fully believed that the end would not be a time of terror. He accepted it as if it would be a time of peace; he had faith that there would be justice for all during man's final demise.

Edward was quite obviously disturbed by the Revelations, but he expertly masked it with cynical humor, ranting about the utter pomp and circumstance of it all as described in the Scriptures.

"All this talk of jeweled gates and seven seals and seven trumpets? It sounds like a bloody circus if you ask me!"

Carlisle would never show his offense outright, but Esme saw it in the mild storm of his golden eyes. He was reluctant to argue with his son for the last word, yet he so dearly wished that Edward would accept the Truth as he had. He wished that Esme would accept it as well.

She could tell from the way his eyes would glance at her every so often – he might speak the words slowly and pierce her in place so that his stare was unavoidable, forcing her to hear the significance of what he was saying. He wanted her to know, as he did. That six-winged seraphim were nothing to fear; that the great beast rising up from the sea would not defeat those who held fast to their faith; that justice would prevail in the end if only they would _believe. _

Carlisle, with his soft voice and truth-tainted eyes, was almost insufferable to listen to. He made Esme _want _to believe, but he did not understand that she _couldn't. _Because if she did – if she accepted this Biblical truth – that would mean she was still responsible for her soul. It would mean that the dangers of immorality still rang bells in the steeple of her conscience.

It struck her as odd that Carlisle did not see how the world's end would be so much more terrifying for immortals to endure. The uncertainty of what their fate would be... it was chilling to think about.

But Carlisle... His voice did not quiver, nor did his hands tremble as he read. He was fascinatingly unmoving, steady, gilded and omnipresent to all her senses. There was a captivating strength to his profile in the candlelight that struck her like something so familiar, she knew she must have seen it before.

Watching him as he studied his faith, Esme was disturbed by how angelic he looked, how impossibly untouchable. It reminded her deeply of the first time she had seen him through the eyes of a human. His beauty _was _religious to her – inescapably so. A man like Carlisle seemed incapable of loving only one woman. No, the love this man contained was not made for something so perpetually prosaic. The love that Carlisle kept within his heart was painfully transcendental, meant for heaven alone, and not bound to be wasted on earthly insignificance.

Carlisle could conquer any evil simply by staring it gently in the eyes. He was purely impossible, both to overcome and to refuse. Esme's desire to own him had never before felt like such a foolish wish before that night, despite how incredibly foolish she had known it to be already.

Edward had left them alone together after giving his final, critical testimony. Esme lingered purposefully at Carlisle's side, watching him devour the last few pages he had yet to reread. She wondered, as she stared at him, how such devotion could be born in someone who was, by all accounts of the spirited world, damned.

When there were only four candles left dancing in the darkness, she asked him timidly, "Were there many others who shared your faith while you were in Volterra?"

Carlisle closed the book at long last, his eyes again entering the solid world.

"No," he whispered succinctly with a small, bitter chuckle to punctuate the lonely word. "You'll find that there are not many _religious _vampires around. Yet one more category I manage to defile for my kind."

His shoulders sunk slightly as he took the stack of books in his hands, and she moved aside so he could return them to their shelves.

"You can't be the only one of us out there who believes what you do, Carlisle," Esme protested, displeased with this world which always seemed to be against him.

He sighed heavily, reluctantly content with the burden of which she spoke. "I'm afraid that in all my travels, I've yet to find another vampire who shares my beliefs." He smiled wearily. "Even finding another _human _who does is sometimes difficult."

There was something about the vulnerable softness of his voice that made Esme want to falsely agree with his faith. But her pride and her own self-doubt would not let her surrender. "I'm sorry to hear that."

He stopped moving the books around to stare at her squarely. And for that moment, his eyes were all but begging her. '_You could be that one vampire who matches my faith, Esme,_'they seemed to murmur, rippling like sultry honey.

But she was too afraid to translate that glow in his eyes in such a way, too tempted to make herself into such a passionate target for his charms.

"There is nothing to be sorry for," he sighed, turning away when he saw no opportune waver in her eyes. "Just as the Bible predicates, there are those who would incessantly impugn me for my faith. My duty as a Christian is to stand firm in my beliefs, even in times when the tide works against me."

He held his head higher as he organized the shelves, a quiet strength and pride to his posture that threatened her heart with a gentle flutter.

Esme narrowed her eyes. "But if other vampires would be given the chance to witness your faith, then they might—"

"No, my dear. If that were to happen, it would have happened long ago. If not in Volterra, then somewhere in the Homeland of the Catholics." Carlisle took a long breath before he began to explain. "You see, because they possess the transcendent gift of immortality, vampires are often under the false delusion that they wield as great a power as their God. And this...power strife, if you will, makes them reluctant to place their trust in a God they feel has no control over them." His eyes became distant as he turned his head toward the windows, having placed the last of the books in their shelves. "Sometimes I fear that Edward strides the edges of this trap."

"I don't feel that way at all," Esme assured, knowing a sense of God-like power still felt far from her reach, vampire or not. "At least I don't _want _to feel that way..."

No doubt hearing the uncertainty in her voice, Carlisle finally turned his entire body to face her, his gaze brimming more with reassurance than with pity. "You will find your faith one day, Esme. Perhaps by some profound experience as I have had."

"You had an experience?" she asked quietly, her interest piqued to the point of pain.

"Yes, but it was not 'one striking moment' of divine enlightenment as you're thinking." He shook his head, an almost-smirk of silent wisdom upon his lips. "It was..." He thought intensely, trying to muster the words to describe such an epiphany. His face was at first softly tortured, then saddened, his brow furrowed in loss. His eyes lifted, drawing in the room with their golden grip, and he suddenly smiled, brushing forth an astounded acceptance in the form of a trilling chuckle. "Well, I'm rather astonished to say there are no words."

"But you _knew,_" she marveled, drilling him with her eyes. "After this experience, you knew that God existed?"

He smiled in humble jubilation. "Existed, ruled, watched over, performed miracles – I knew He did it all."

"_How?_"

Carlisle went on shaking his head, eyes sparkling with patient amusement. "No '_how._'I just knew."

"Your knowledge comes from the Bible?"

He shook his head yet again, she hoped for the final time, as he took one step closer to her where she stood across from him. "I would not have had to even be a learned man to know this. No, this was not a worldly knowledge – not obtained by any pilgrimage – not a _knowing _of the senses," he revealed in the hushed velvet strains of his accent. He smiled to one corner and lifted his fingers to lightly tap her temple. "Not here..." He let his hand float down, past her chin, past her neckline, and his knuckles brushed up gently against the satiny ruffles over her left breast. "Here."

He had not even touched her – only the fabric of her dress – but her chest tingled from the place he would have touched had he only pressed his fingers an inch or two closer...

"In your heart," she confirmed breathlessly, eyes wide as she looked up at his face.

He bowed his head, meeting her eyes, and the flames from the last two candles reflected in his gaze. A tiny whimper of affirmation sounded from his throat, and suddenly Esme felt her hand being pulled limply into his own at her side.

"You will find your moment as well, Esme," he murmured knowingly, his voice husky. "I see it. I can see that you long for it. God will find you, and He will restore your faith." Carlisle smiled warmly and let go of Esme's hand to tickle the shell of her ear with his fingers. "You must keep listening for His voice."

In the presence of such intimacy with her beautiful doctor, Esme could not help but let her mind wander down the avenue of no return.

Oh, she was such a fool for wanting him, yet she could not smother that _want. _Even then, she wanted to wrap her arms around him and hold him so close that he would not be able to breathe. She wanted to _touch _him in so many intangible ways – not physically, but spiritually and emotionally. She wanted to burrow herself inside of him and cover herself with the warm blanket of his steadfast faith so that she could be safe wherever she went.

But this was so preposterous that it made the end of the world seem like quite the picnic in comparison.

If she could not possess Carlisle Cullen, there was really no point to her existence in the first place. They were too incompatible on the most important of stances. _He_ would stand his ground until the end of time with a firm heart and trust in the Lord. _She_ would not subject herself to be present at the final upheaval. She could find a way out.

Whether Edward and Carlisle found theirs as well was not her responsibility.

But that did not stop Esme from worrying about their fate. After all, she loved them both so recklessly. It was only natural that she should want the very best for both of them before herself.

Sometimes, just _sometimes, _she grew concerned over her love for them – especially for Edward – that the love she felt for him sometimes bordered dangerously close to being romantic in nature as it was with Carlisle. But it never crossed that line. Yes, he had a striking appeal, and she could have loved him as more than just a son were she just a bit younger, but he was _seventeen._ It worried her to dwell too deeply on the love she felt for him as much as she worried over her love for his father.

Esme found herself wondering if there were actually something _wrong _with her when it came to loving. It simply felt unnatural to love these men so passionately when she was still only a very new member of their coven. Something inside her heart had been altered drastically from her previous life, where love was something she had only ever _wanted _to feel for those around her.

There were a few fleeting moments of her past life she remembered, during the days she had carried her child. Just that tiny flutter in the swell of her belly as she felt her unborn son move about had triggered a greater love from her heart than she ever recalled having for anyone before. Her love for Edward and Carlisle was just like that. Though neither of them was fidgeting about in her stomach, Esme still felt love for them in that same way. As if they, irrationally, belonged to her. As if they were _made _for her love.

The satisfaction Esme felt from simply loving Edward and Carlisle, regardless of whether they felt the effects of that love, was almost sinful. It felt like a sin to love them so dearly, both scandalous and pleasant.

She supposed she could accept this intense need to love as her particular weakness in this life. It was better to love and not be loved back than it was to love inadequately. And really, what could have been inadequate when it came to love? Esme was sure she had loved Carlisle after only a few hours of knowing him, and these nights when she sometimes pretended to sleep in her bed, she would turn her head and dream about what his face might have looked like on the pillow beside her. This particular dream was not new, and neither was it practical. None of her dreams had any sort of practicality. If they _had, _they wouldn't be dreams.

Carlisle was so insultingly easy to dream about. It wasn't her fault, and it wasn't his fault either. He was dreamlike just walking around, in whatever he happened to be wearing and however his feet touched the ground. His smile would sometimes spill into her subconscious while she sat in her bedroom, staring out the window – that smile made her think of springtime and peace and soft things. It made her feel like she was floating, and it made her temperature rise, even when he wasn't around.

Sometimes she wondered if anything _she _did made _him _feel these sorts of things.

It was so dangerous to wonder like that, but bless her heart, she couldn't help herself. She wondered if he was filled with that same uncontainable joy when he saw_ her_ smiling. She wondered if he felt warm when she accidentally touched _him..._

She could wonder all she wanted, but she would never have any insight unless she asked him herself, or better yet, sabotaged poor Edward for answers. It should have brought a giggle to her lips to think of what drama might ensue from her asking such inappropriate questions. But it didn't amuse her at all. It made her depressed.

Esme's eyes faded sadly as they followed the wild dance of treetops, bending submissively in the gusts of wind that whistled eerily into every crack of the old house. Not long after their discussion in his study, Carlisle had left in the middle of the night unexpectedly, promising that he would do his best to be back by dawn. The dawn came and went, but Carlisle did not. He hadn't kept his promise, and it was a shame because he'd had a perfect record on keeping promises until that morning. To make matters worse, Edward had not come back from his school yet, and Esme was beginning to worry that he had come across trouble in town.

Esme had voiced her displeasure at the idea that she would have to be home alone for at least two hours, but Edward was insistent that she needed the practice. She tried to tell him the last time did not turn out so well, but he wouldn't hear it.

Only more evidence to her that Edward only heard what he wanted to hear.

So now she was stuck, staring out the window with high hopes that one of them would make it home before the scent of blood did.

The violent wind brought with it a thousand scents, both appetizing and repulsing alike. Esme was hard-pressed to find a note that would have been enough to tempt her from her room, but it soon arrived without warning, several hours after Edward's departure.

It was not the scent of blood, but the scent of sweet, familiar relief.

She hurried down the stairs and into the foyer, her feet reaching the last step just as the door flew open and the wind rushed inside.

Carlisle's coat swirled about him as he found his way in through the door, the blustery day shooing him back inside to the warm house where he ought to be. The wind played ruthlessly with his blond crown of hair, ruffling the strands loose with a hectic heroism. He looked more vampire-like than usual with the black fabric billowing behind him, until the door was shut and he sighed, pulling the coat from his arms. A few eager autumn leaves got inside, scampering about his feet, corpse-like yellow and orange stars with stems. He trampled a few of them without noticing, and they were made into a sad spread of flakes on the foyer floor.

Esme took the leather bag he held, and noticing the warmth of the handle where he had clutched it brought her a shiver of delight. His scent drenched her generously as he unbuttoned his overcoat, and it was more like candy than she had ever remembered it, sweet enough to cause her a subtle toothache. It made her dreadfully thirsty.

"What dismal weather we've been having," Carlisle murmured as he shed the coat he wore and placed it neatly in the closet.

Esme wanted to ask him why he was so late. She wanted to tilt her head to one side and find those topaz windows beneath his lashes and tell him that she had missed him sorely, and what had he been doing all morning long that had kept him from her?

He looked bothered by something, that lovely pout on his lips bending the bell curve for perfection. She found herself wondering if she could find a spare moment to imagine tracing that pout with her fingers in the dark...

His eyes struck hers swiftly, flickering from the bag she still held to her eyes with a questioning look. With a tiny chirp of apology she practically thrust the bag into his hands and turned away.

"You're um...rather late," she said softly, more than wary of his footsteps behind her as she walked through the hall.

She paused at the doors to his study as though blocking his entrance. She was not aware of how demanding her stance might have looked to him, or else she might have stepped to the side.

Carlisle's hand reached out hesitantly toward the handle before drifting down to his side in defeat. "Yes, I had to visit a patient."

"Was it Annaliese again?"

His eyes sharpened just the slightest bit in surprise.

"Yes." His voice was simple, gentle.

A weak surge of contempt bubbled inside of Esme, but she moved politely out of his way, her eyes never breaking their hold on his face.

Carlisle glanced at her in concern before opening the door to his study, but he did not close it behind him. Esme took it as an invitation for her to follow.

The dignified handsomeness of the room never failed to bring a familiar thrill to her heart. Nothing in his study ever changed, except for the surface of his desk. Today it was strewn with crumpled white pages, some half-filled with his decorative script in that peacock blue ink he favored so dearly. It looked as though he had repeated at least twelve attempts to compose a draft that just refused to work with him. As soon as he reached the desk, he swiftly brushed the papers off to one side with a notable sense of urgency, and she had the distinct suspicion that he was tempted to hide them from her.

Politely, she pretended not to notice.

"Edward still has not returned," she mentioned casually, but the faint hints of accusation were still there, and she could do nothing to keep them at bay.

Carlisle sighed forcefully as he dropped his medical bag on the desk, conveniently crushing the pile of half-written pages. His back was turned to her, but Esme saw the stress enter his figure as he tilted his head up toward the ceiling.

"Oh, Esme... he didn't know you would be home by yourself for so long." He turned around, apology strewn haphazardly across his striking face, most profusely in his dreamy yellow eyes. "I know that _I_ said I would be back this morning, but I could not neglect this last minute visit. The fault is mine."

She had not intended to blame Carlisle, and she especially had not intended for him to blame _himself._ But somehow Carlisle ended up taking the blame, no matter what the situation.

Still Esme was irreversibly irked that Carlisle had chosen to neglect _her _rather than this notorious Annaliese. Her mind offered her an irrationally fabricated image of the girl – a bedridden beauty with a cough that could have charmed every bird to her window – and Esme forced the thought away resentfully before she could become too carried away by misplaced jealousy.

"I was only worried," Esme shrugged, still staring at Carlisle pointedly from a fair few feet away. It both hurt her and delighted her to see him so tortured over this. In a way he did deserve a fair dose of remorse. After all, he had left her behind in spite of his promise to be home in time.

"How long have you been alone?" His eyes sparkled as he asked her the perfectly innocent question, and her heart translated his words into something far more profound.

How long had she been alone?

_Today or her entire life? _

She lowered her head, unsure of whether or not she wanted to see the inevitable regret mar his features at her answer. "Since half past eight," she said, with at least enough grace to be tentative.

He looked to the clock on the mantel and his jaw firmed deliciously. She feared for a moment that he might actually hit himself, but then he rushed to her side.

"Esme, I can't even begin to apologize for my carelessness." His eyes burned her thoroughly. "Were you all right? Do you need blood?"

The fervor in his voice was intoxicating.

"No...no! I'm fine." She squeezed her eyes shut, flinching as his wonderful hands urgently gripped her arms.

His gaze hardened as though he didn't believe her, but she held her own even while he touched her, and it was over in a flash.

"I was only worried," she repeated in a meek whisper.

His hands loosened around her arms, and his face relaxed at once. He cocked his head, furrowed his eyes, and looked so much like a curious little boy that she nearly flinched.

"Why were you worried?" he queried in a hushed voice. There were tiny sparkles in the depths of his eyes, like little hopeful golden fireworks.

Her feet shifted awkwardly as his fingers lingered on her elbows. "Edward is late," she explained as though the reason were obvious.

Carlisle's brow relaxed solemnly as he withdrew both hands from her sides. "Edward sometimes has to wait for more people to clear out before he feels it safe enough to walk through town."

Esme's eyes narrowed in confusion at the excuse. "I thought he was in class."

Carlisle exhaled wearily as he walked back over to his desk. "Edward has only taken _one_ class at the Academy," he informed her quietly. "We agreed it would be best that he withdraw some time ago. It was more difficult to spend an hour in a crowded classroom than he expected."

She placed one hand lightly against the side of her jaw in chagrin. "Oh... I didn't know."

"Yes, well, he talks it up to make it sound as though he interacts with people without any trouble at all," Carlisle said with a tight smile. "Edward doesn't want to give the impression of helplessness, especially not in front of you," he added with a raised eyebrow. "He is male, after all."

She flinched. "I could never see Edward as _helpless_."

Carlisle smiled fondly. "Then his efforts were sound." His accent was particularly prominent as he spoke, and she had to fight back the smile that threatened to betray her feelings for the fascinating lilt.

"Why does he leave the house so often?" she pressed curiously.

"Edward likes to test himself by taking these trips into town," Carlisle told her as he seated himself gracefully behind the desk. He began arranging the contents of his medical bag onto the surface as he spoke. "I told him it wasn't necessary – at least not as often as he does it – but he is terribly impatient, and I suppose he finds some pleasure in challenging himself."

Esme cringed a little, knowing Edward would not have been happy had he known Carlisle felt it acceptable to tell her these things. It was going to be terribly difficult not to think about this conversation in front of the boy, or he might become disastrously angry with them both.

"I don't know how he can do that." She shuddered at the mere thought. "I'd be so scared of...hurting someone." Hurting, indeed. She only couldn't bring herself to say the word"killing".

Carlisle was staring at her with pity in one eye and affection in the other, and the two somehow created a balanced gaze. "Well, one day it will be a necessary obstacle if you wish to walk amongst humans again," he told her, his tone cautious.

Esme scoffed in exhaustion at the familiar reminder. It made her ill just thinking about the day when she would have to test the waters herself. Confidence was hard to come by, especially in her current state of restraint.

"_Walk amongst humans..._" she repeated, her voice dripping with derision. Her arms crossed over her chest as she felt the frustration rising in her throat. "I _loathe_ the way that sounds, Carlisle."

She began a peculiar pace before his desk, surprised by her own forwardness at expressing her discontent. She was growing so very tired of keeping her anger holed up. It had to come out some time.

"As do I," he admitted calmly, his eyes watching her carefully as he absently sterilized a row of injection needles.

She shook her head. "It's just that it makes us sound so..._in_human."

He slowly set the needle down before he had finished cleaning it and devoted the depth of his attentive gaze entirely to her. "And do you consider _us_ to still be human, Esme?"

She paused warily.

"Well, no, but..."

He arched both eyebrows. "But?"

"I wouldn't so readily refer to _myself_ as a _vampire,_" she clarified vehemently. "_That _is what continues to disturb me.

She was surprised to hear him chuckling. "I didn't take well to the term either at first."

"At first?"

She hoped that did not mean he was content with it now.

"Well, we must remember that even humans have labels – they are impossible to escape. I may as well accept mine with a gracious hand," he said affably. "However, that does not mean I have to _present_ myself as a vampire."

She stared at him in disbelief. He really didn't understand. Someone as good as Carlisle could not possibly be content with calling himself a vampire.

"Don't you find it a repulsive label to bear?" she pressured desperately as he sighed and rose to his feet. "Why must we acknowledge it at all? Why can't we simply be...human?"

She rested the volume of her voice upon the last word, and he moved around the front of the desk to face her properly. The warm and cool struggle of his scent enveloped her, like peppermints and candied cherries. His eyes studied her for a moment while she subtly breathed all of him into her welcoming lungs.

"We cannot simply '_be human' _because we would be denying what we really are," he pointed out smoothly.

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Is that not something you choose to do daily, Doctor Cullen?" she quipped dryly.

His smirk was deep enough to bring out the dimples in both his cheeks, and it unleashed a lazy bundle of butterflies in her stomach. "I deny it in public, yes, but that is not the same as denying it in my own mind."

The certainty in his tone was brilliantly irritating.

"Well, what if _I _choose to deny it both in public _and_ in my mind?" she threatened gracefully, just for the sake of being stubborn.

To Esme's mounting frustration, Carlisle did not regard her threat with great concern. He sighed, letting his shoulders roll back a bit, and she felt indescribably small standing before him. "That is your choice, and I cannot stop you from making it," he conceded gently.

This constant fight between freedom and restraint was treacherous with him. Did he not see how contradictory he was being with her? One day he was insisting that she must never leave the house alone, and the next he was pushing her to be more independent than she was capable of being.

_Helpless, hopeless Esme, making choices on her own, and _trusting _those choices? Why, it was unheard of. _

"I want to be human," she all but demanded, fed up with his patient reasoning. "I want to be human so that I can be myself again."

He blinked and his fingers twitched on his right hand, as though they were tempted to touch her. For a moment she anticipated that he _would _touch her_, _and her body became instantly tense and utterly ready for that comforting brush of fingertips.

But it never came.

"You don't need to be human to be yourself, Esme," he countered wisely, eyes positively laving over her face. He said his words slowly and chose them carefully. "The kind of person you are has nothing to do with whether you are human or vampire."

She still cringed at the crude label. "But it is easier to_ find_ _myself _when I am human." She struggled to make her eyes fiercer than they were willing to allow. He did not look the least bit intimidated, but she was adamant anyway. "So, Doctor, I want to be human."

Carlisle looked down with a bothered little smirk, shaking his head. Esme's gaze drifted absently down to his hip where his hand was curled against his belt in that endearingly self-conscious way. She bit her lip and looked up at him, wondering what he could possibly be thinking.

He pursed his lips suddenly, eyes narrowed as they flicked to the bookshelves beside him. He relieved his right hand of its awkward twisting to reach across for a random novel from the shelf. She watched confusedly as he presented the book to her, showing her every angle as he turned it about in his hands – back cover, front cover, inside.

"What am I holding, Esme?"

She hesitated at first, worried that he might catch her in a trick question. "A...book?"

"So we agree, this is a book?" He nodded with perfectly arched brows.

"Yes..."

His small lips tightened with the effort not to twist into a smile as he strode to the fireplace.

"Now, if I were to toss this book into the fire, and burn it—"

She gasped and held her hand out in front of her, coming to the poor book's defense before Carlisle threatened to throw it into the flames.

"Would it still be a book, Esme?" he challenged softly, still suspending the book innocently before the fireplace.

She froze for a second before answering bitterly, "No. It would be ashes."

"And we would never be able to read it again," he added with a saddened expression.

"No."

"And we would never be able to return it to its original form," he continued thoughtfully.

She shook her head, slightly afraid for where he was taking this.

"Have you read this book before, Esme?"

She was disarmed by the pleasantness of his question as he held the book up for her to clearly read its title.

"_The Iliad_? No, I have not."

"Would you like to read it?" he offered politely, and for a moment she was distracted by the loveliness of his accent.

"Yes, I suppose I would," she agreed, stepping closer as if preparing to take it from him.

His eyes darkened slightly, and she tensed. "Then if I were to destroy it, you would be upset," he supposed, irritatingly calm in spite of the crude threat.

"Yes, Carlisle," she insisted with a tone of distress, almost tempted to snatch the book from his hand.

She'd thought saying his name would have influenced him otherwise, but it hadn't.

He smiled mildly, and before she could so much as utter a gasp, he carelessly tossed the centuries-old book into the fireplace.

Her jaw dropped.

Smile still in place, he folded his hands over his lap in a gesture that was anything but awkward. "Now, if I were to tell you that I had a second copy – and it looked slightly different, but it told the same story – would that satisfy you?"

All at once, something snapped. Her mind seemed to work again, and she knew far too well what overtly clever point he had been trying to make all along.

She was the book. The old book was a human and the new book was a vampire. They had the same story, but they only looked different.

She was the same person. She could never go back to what she once was, but beneath her thirst and abilities and appearance, she was still the same _person. _

"I..." Her eyes snapped from the burning book in the fire to his face.

"You can never go back to being a human, Esme," Carlisle acknowledged seriously, his smile fading as his eyes softened. "But you are still _you. _Even as a vampire, you tell the same _story._"

She swallowed hard and watched the pages of the book blacken in defeat, curling like dark cabbage leaves beneath the licking amber flames.

"I know that I can never be human again," she mused, imagining that she was speaking to the burning pages rather than the man standing before her. "And honestly, I know I'll never again _want_ the life I lost." She turned her eyes up to Carlisle and stared deeply, searching for his profound understanding. "But isn't it true that even the things we once despised... we sometimes miss them?"

His eyes boiled with memories, and though she could not see what those memories entailed, she felt as if she were looking into something despairingly private. It was so powerful that she had to look away before he responded with a hushed "_Yes_."

"I hate being lonely, but sometimes I miss being alone," she whispered with a sad chuckle, careful to catch his eyes again as she turned her chin up.

His lips parted with a gentle breath as he revealed, "I hate the cold, but sometimes I miss the winter."

Esme didn't know why hearing Carlisle say this made her smile. A soft brushing sound came from beneath her feet...and suddenly she realized she was taking small steps toward him.

"I'm not unhappy being a vampire," she insisted gently, shaking her head, "but sometimes I miss being human..."

His eyes dropped to her feet quickly, then back to her face as she spoke her next words.

"...and I hate that there has to be such a difference between the two."

The flicker of sadness in his expression was too brief to recognize before it was replaced by a reassuring clemence, an undisturbed tranquility in his eyes.

"You remember what we spoke about the other night, Esme," he reminded quietly. "_Differences _will not matter in the end. Differences will be nonexistent."

"That is what _you _believe," she corrected reluctantly. "God never specified the fate of the vampire race in the Bible."

Carlisle gazed thoughtfully at the windows behind her for a few moments before a small but pleasant smile quirked his lips. He looked down at her, and her limbs stiffened as she wondered how they had come to stand so close to one another.

"Then perhaps we should see ourselves as _neither_ human nor vampire," he suggested with a reasonable sigh. She blinked, slightly puzzled, and he continued in the softest voice imaginable. "That being, I am a man and you are a woman. We need be nothing more than that."

The breath left her lungs in one swift rush. A flexible filigree weaved through the muscles in the backs of her legs, quite nearly rendering them completely helpless.

"Does _that_ satisfy you, Esme?" he questioned in a breathy whisper.

Was he _trying _to make her knees buckle? Because it was possible that they had come closer to collapsing beneath her weight in that moment than they ever had before.

And how could he possibly expect her not to read between the oh-so-subtle lines he had carefully framed?

_He was a man and she was a woman. _

Some sickly emboldened part of her wanted to say _yes, this did satisfy her_.

It did satisfy her that no matter how alike they could be, they would still possess the most delicious of opposites.

It did satisfy her that, together, they had the capability of being one.

He was so close to her that one step forward would have her bump against his chest. Everything in his stance was a gentle oppression that stapled her to the ground and simultaneously frightened her out of her wits. A vine of sweet static choked the base of her spine, sprouting electrical blossoms as it slowly twisted its way up to the back of her neck.

Her lips opened to answer him, the froth of unformed words stirring on the back of her tongue, yet nothing came forth.

She could not have picked a more appropriate moment for the doors to the study to fly open in a heart-stopping breeze of ceremonious entry. Long flashes framed his eyes, and long arms framed his body.

Edward was the Prince of Perfect Timing.

* * *

_**A/N:**_ _Oh, boy. That Edward is great at interfering at the most ideal times. ;)_

_What did you think of Carlisle and Esme's first rather "heated" conversation in this chapter?_


	23. The Music of Gratitude

**Chapter 23:**

**The Music of Gratitude**

* * *

For days Esme's mind continued to ring with the strains of Carlisle's suggestive words.

"_I am a man and you are a woman."_

However suggestive he had intended the words to be mattered very little in her mind. The fact was that he had said them, and she had taken them and interpreted them as she received them. If Edward had not walked in on them...

It almost scared her to think of what might have happened.

It scared her enough that Carlisle was obviously not blind to the difference in their sex as she had previously thought. Admittedly, it had been a ridiculous suspicion, but she had to explain his perturbing decency somehow. She attributed the oddity to his being a doctor. His demeanor was naturally very composed and professional under any and all circumstances. But he just did not act like a normal man would have, at least not in the constant company of a woman.

Even more disconcerting was that she did not know how she would have responded to his suggestions either. What could she have said in response to such an observation? What had he _wanted _her to say?

_Why, yes. You _are _a man, and I _am _a woman. Shall we make love right here on the carpet, then?_

It was so ridiculous to even imagine the numerous _unfavorable _ways that could have ended...

Even if she had been brave enough or brash enough to stutter some sorry sort of answer, it would have been telltale enough for him to hear her struggle.

Thank goodness it hadn't happened. Thank goodness for Edward.

The boy was not on her side in all of this, and Esme was well aware of it. In a different world, her alter-conscience should have been frustrated with Edward for ruining the inescapable heat of such a moment. These moments were rare. And to happen across such a painfully ideal moment like the one between her and Carlisle was like finding a gemstone in a pile of soot. She should have hated Edward passionately for disrupting what could have been _their moment_.

But she did not hate him. She _appreciated _him.

It was clear why. She wasn't ready.

She did not remember Carlisle being very irritated at Edward's well-planned little burst-in. If she remembered correctly, he had only looked slightly tired and ready to move on, as if what had been interrupted was just as inconsequential as a dull conversation about the weather. Carlisle had been neither relieved nor frustrated. So why was _she_ now feeling both?

Esme was undeniably relieved that Edward had broken them apart with a casual, _"Have either of you seen my brown hiking boots anywhere?"_

But she was almost angry with Carlisle for not being affected in the slightest.

He should have been furious with Edward. He knew full well what the boy's intentions had been, and they certainly had nothing to do with a mysteriously misplaced pair of hiking boots. Yet Carlisle had offered to help his son search without qualms, and off they went without her. It became like any other insignificant moment. Hot and bothered, then one second later, doused with ice water.

Hadn't Carlisle been _burning _to hear her response to his question?

Apparently he had not.

And still, the very reason why it hadn't been awkward between them after this incident was because of the timeliness of Edward's intrusion. They still had their awkward moments of course, most being whenever she was forced to pass him in the hallway. In hindsight it had been worse before. However, Carlisle wasn't home quite as often these days.

His constant absence had caused him to cancel several of their planned "blood tests," the unfortunate result being Esme's declining confidence in her ability to resist human blood. But like a stubborn student who refused to commit to her studies, she scurried away from any opportunity for exposure. Carlisle had been so adamant that she practice before, and now she was beginning to fear that her neglect to do so might be cause for regression.

Even when Carlisle _was_ home, he rarely spent the nights with her in his study as he used to. Normally that time would have been reserved for her and Edward. Now he closed the doors when he came home from the hospital at night. Two dull wooden clicks, and the rest was silence. Because Carlisle was too kind-hearted to refuse them verbally, a pair of closed doors in his language meant a desire for privacy – and in his home, that desire was respected with utmost reverence.

It was difficult to accept the loss of his company.

It was even more strange to roam about the house without hearing the echo of his laughter at something Edward might have said, without the delightful danger of passing him in the hallway. Esme wondered how she had gotten through those early days when she had not been so close to the doctor. Now that she thought back on it, they had hardly exchanged more than a few sentences per day. She used to spend most of her time with Edward, but now her hours were split evenly between the two of them. It stayed that way until Carlisle became consumed by his work. At least she presumed it was his work that kept him so busy all of the time.

Esme was consumed by thoughts of what sorts of subjects she might introduce when she and Carlisle had their next discussion. She thought of asking him what flowers she should plant in the garden next spring, or when he was going to show her the paintings of his home in Florence like he'd promised. Sometimes she would get so carried away, she would finish their entire conversation in her head, anticipating exactly the sorts of things he would say in return to every one of her remarks. It struck her as a bit sad that she had become this lonely.

Then she'd gotten around to thinking about the things he'd said about finding her faith. To raise the topic again in his presence would have made her uncomfortable, yet some shadowy area of her heart longed to speak with him further on the subject of faith. She wanted to ask him where he found his enlightenment, where he saw God's essence in nature, what he thought heaven might look like...

He had given her reason to hope again – it was the very reason why he wore that chained golden cross beneath his collar, why he continued to read the Gospels though he had them memorized. He had proposed that this reason could be hers as well.

_"You must keep listening for His voice."_

Esme absently reached up to find the place on her ear where Carlisle had touched her. The skin there had felt more delicate lately, and the moment her own finger grazed against it, the entire side of her face tingled in response. It was as if his touch had truly bestowed some alternate sense, some secret ability to hear ethereal voices.

But what would the voice of God sound like? Would it be like a rushing ocean, a hollow but powerful sound like holding the inside of a seashell up to her ear? Would it be a gentle, cloud-like drawl, like cotton smothering her eardrums? Would it be like music or wind or rain or light? Would it even be anything she could compare to the things of this world?

There would be only one person who would know what the voice of God sounded like, and that was Carlisle himself. And she would have asked him – it would have made the perfect conversation starter on any other dark and lonely night – but he was so preoccupied with more important things. She was hesitant to disturb him when the evening fell.

Carlisle seemed so exhausted when he came home at night. It was the way he held his shoulders. the way he let his neck tilt a little to one side. His body language was so weary. His scent was a brutal swirl of different humans' blood, the bitter tang of antiseptic, and the sharp sugar of his own venom. Lately he was more quiet than usual when he came through the door, his eyes drifting about somewhat aimlessly, like he was not fully connected to his surroundings, as if he were interacting with a dream. Although he always greeted her out of courtesy, his smile was only half as warm, and the familiar joy in his voice was slightly deflated.

It would have made her absurdly happy just to pat his hand in a comforting manner, or perhaps give a reassuring squeeze to his shoulder. But she could do neither because his hand was never quite still enough that it was accessible to touch, and his shoulder was just out of reach enough that it would be awkward for her to get a proper grip on it. Sadly, she often let him leave the foyer without ever touching him, unless she was lucky enough to brush hands with him when he gave her something to hold.

She would snatch up her dignity and clutch it possessively against her heart as she watched his defeated stride down the hall, wishing and hoping he would turn the other way this time. But his feet always took him in that same predictable path toward his study at the end of the hall. The doors shut behind him, and her shoulders fell in remorse.

Edward's pity for her was a sound unheard until one morning while Carlisle was away, he offered to teach her how to play cards.

At least, that was what she thought he'd offered.

"See, first you lean two cards against each other on the surface in sort of a triangle shape." His nimble fingers demonstrated the trick for her. "Then once you get them to stand on their own, you make another triangle and then lay one card on top of them."

He quickly conjured a base for the structure, his expression intense with concentration as he worked to balance the cards so they would stand steady.

"And you'd better not cheat and try to bend the cards either, because I'll notice if you do," he warned in a clipping, parental tone.

"What is the name of this game?" she asked conversationally.

"It's not a _game,_" he interjected in mild offense. "It's a very challenging exercise for both mind logic and coordination."

"Have you played, say, Poker before?" she asked with a winning smile.

"Of course I have. But we have no proper loot to bet with, do we?" he reminded with a smirk.

Esme sighed and picked up a handful of cards to fashion a small fan for her hand instead. "These are strange pictures," she commented, noticing the absence of kings and queens in favor of dragons and serpents. "What sorts of cards are these?"

"I don't know. They're Carlisle's," Edward informed her with a roll of his eyes. "They're probably Tarot cards from East Asia or something."

"The Tarot deck was originally Italian," she corrected absently.

"How do _you_ know that?"

Esme stared whimsically at the ceiling for a few moments, mildly embarrassed to admit the cause for her recent obsession with Italian history.

Edward read her mind and shook his head with an exhausted half-smile. "You know maybe we _could_ play Poker, Esme," he suggested in a low voice. "I'm sure Carlisle has something of value stashed away somewhere in his study. Maybe you'd like an excuse to go sneaking around in there some more."

She gave him an ungrateful glare before he could continue, and he promptly snapped his mouth shut.

The birds chirping outside filled the silence as Edward carefully arranged the cards on a second tier to his tower. He held his breath as he placed a tricky card, then exhaled in relief as it held its place.

"You know what's kind of depressing?" he sighed.

She looked at him from the corner of her eye, daring him to make one more remark on her infatuated ways.

He tapped the card against his chin, a thoughtful furrow to his brow. "Neither of us could actually go out and _spend _Carlisle's money if we did steal it."

Esme's shoulders slumped as she stared out at the partly sunny afternoon. That _was _depressing.

"You would steal from your own father, Edward?" she asked in pitying disapproval.

"He's not really my father," he whispered. His stare was heavy but blank for a moment as he balanced another card. "Besides, it's not like he'd miss a few dollars."

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You sound like you _want _to get into some kind of trouble."

"I'm so chronically bored I'd do anything for a little trouble," he admitted with a chuckle. "Sometimes being the sweet, studious boy glued to the piano gets a little tiring, if you know what I mean."

Though this was the Edward she preferred, Esme had to accept that there were two very different sides to him. Ironically, she could relate. Perhaps it was true that everyone had two sides. Vaguely she wondered if Carlisle was an exception to this assumption. He seemed foreign to the idea of anger. Even when he returned from his shift occasionally displeased, his displeasure never stroked past disappointment.

"_You'd_ _think with all this Prohibition drama, people would learn to behave themselves_," he'd said the night before, tongue ticking against the roof of his mouth as he hung his white coat in the closet, adorning himself in the faithful armor of his stethoscope. "_You wouldn't believe the damage alcohol alone can do to these men... It's heartbreaking._"

Esme knew many of his patients were victims of the drink. Despite what Doctor Cullen may have thought, she was sadly quite familiar with the destructive power a single glass could hold over a man, either respectable or despicable. Her own husband had been one such victim.

All it had taken was that one innocent remark from the doctor, and her memories slipped under, treating her to several snapshot strikes – a dislocated shoulder, a bruised elbow, a lopsided wrist.

She had to tuck herself away in a dark place to shake the memories away.

The thoughts were stranger than ever. So acute, but so very distant they were. It was as if she had never really _known _a man named Charles Evenson, but she'd only _heard _of him and the terrible things he'd done. It was like she was mourning for a dear sister's pain rather than her own. It still hurt her in deep and dark places – places she wanted her affectionate doctor to fill with warmth and light.

She wanted Carlisle more than ever when she thought of Charles. Her heart truly believed that any knots Charles had tied could be untangled and unwound by Carlisle's patient hands. Carlisle had made her feel new and whole again both physically and emotionally, by the fiery power a flick of his tongue could fetch from her open veins. He _wanted _to give her this chance. He'd thought she deserved it.

Sometimes when she thought like that, she worried that her gratitude to him was never enough. This man had saved her and taken her in when no one had even asked him to. She felt that no words or expressions or actions could ever show him just how grateful she was for that.

She should have never said she missed her humanity. Even if it was true on some level. Even if she would rather them _all _be human than vampire.

Carlisle did not prefer being a vampire any more than Esme did, but she still worried that she had insulted him in some way by saying such things. And what was worse, ever since that conversation, they had drawn apart. Whether that was by the actual words they'd exchanged, the way the discussion had ended_, _or simply Carlisle's demanding schedule... it was not quite clear.

It hurt Esme to have to give him up. She had the distinct feeling that he _wanted _to be alone, too – not because something demanded his time exclusively, but because that time alone was something he sought for himself. She wondered why.

But it wasn't very long before she didn't need to wonder anymore.

The first incident happened on a devilishly dark and rainy night. The wind was howling like a ruthless wolf into the house's creaking crevices, and it was so distressing that Esme had wanted to stay in Edward's company rather than be alone upstairs in her bedroom.

She didn't care that all the boy wanted to do was preach about how spectacular his antique crystal chess set was.

He looked hilariously albeit attractively pompous as he sat before the table with his eyebrows strewn together and an intense mask of studiousness drawn over his angular face. His shoulders were stiff as he rested his chin in one hand, solemnly contemplating the many amazing things he could do by _not _touching the chess pieces before him. To alert him to her aggravation, she heaved a forceful, feminine sigh of boredom, and finally he acknowledged her watching gaze.

She asked him politely if they could play a game together, but he only laughed ruefully at her request. Oh, no, this chess set _could not _be played with, he explained with a wag of his finger – it was priceless.

She shrugged and pressed her hands to the window instead, shocked by the frigid glass beneath her already cold hands. The rain had hardened to shards of icy sleet, plotting a merciless revenge against the roof the house. Whatever it was about shingles that offended the clouds so fiercely had prompted a brute game of darts from the sky. The ground was dark, flooding with blue mud and dead leaves that ran amuck like sneaky demons from the base of one tree to another. They scurried back and forth in the opposing gusts of wind – a flourish from the East, and touché from the West – and they were running back to the forest again, seeking shelter from the battle. There was no lightning or thunder, no electrical surprises, no humid hangover for this storm. It was but a bleak blue terrorist, darkening by the second. All water and ice and death dropping like bullets from smoke-colored clouds.

Esme was taken aback by a sudden, ungrateful gust of wind that rattled the shutters, and she warily retreated from the temperamental beast that begged entry.

Normally Esme enjoyed a good storm – but not at night. In the daytime it was just fine, but at night it almost frightened her.

Edward could have teased her for her childish fears, but he didn't dare...because he knew what was coming would make her even more upset.

Outside the contained drama of the parlor, Carlisle had donned his overcoat and went in a flurry about the house, scooping up every prescription bottle he happened across, with every medical instrument invented hanging haphazardly from his pockets or around his neck. He stuffed whatever could fit into his leather medical bag and the rest into his pockets before he paused by the front door with a challenging glare at the storm.

Esme heard him, of course. Never were her ears unresponsive to the sounds of him, no matter where he happened to be. He dropped a penny on the floor; she heard it. His hands crawled slowly up the front of his sweater, linking the tiny whalebone buttons as they went along; she heard it. He closed the curtains over the windows in his study; she heard it.

The scrape of his shoes slowed to a stop by the front door, and she knew he was watching the storm from the foyer window. That small, octagonal window with the stained glass border that was too high for her to see through.

It was with quiet feet that Esme appeared timidly behind Carlisle as he watched the rain. She stared at him from behind, clutching the banister because it was a chore to suspend her weight when she watched him. He was foolish, she thought, for having combed his hair so neatly – it would surely be soaked on his first step through that door. But here where it was dry, it was perfect – vanilla gold in hue, just made more lustrous by the abundance of light humidity. For a brief, shallow moment she did not pity him, but his beautiful blond hair that would soon be soaked when he opened that door. But she imagined that even if he was drenched, he would look like an angel who had been dunked in holy water.

For some reason, as she watched him watching the dark flood press its ugly palms against the windows, she wanted to do everything in her power to stop him from leaving the house. In a way it might have been selfish – she only didn't want him to leave because she wanted him close to her – but she also worried for his safety that night. No, she worried for his...comfort? His...happiness? She worried for something, but she couldn't quite put a name to it, and this bothered her.

She didn't want him to have to fight against the blistering force of that wind, or endure the steel shower of relentless raindrops, or walk out into the dark night alone.

She felt badly for him because she knew that no one would ever _want_ to do those things. Being a devoted doctor, he _had_ to do them. But she wanted him to stay home with her, safe and warm and dry. She wanted to gently drag him by his scarf and take him back to the parlor where they could watch Edward brood over his antique chess set all night instead. She wanted to slide the heavy coat off his shoulders and sit beside him on the sofa and curl up against him as they waited out the frightening storm.

But a hair-thin fracture split her poor heart in half, knowing that the night would never end this way even if she _had_ been able to stop him from going out that door.

She still tried.

"C...Carlisle?"

He startled a bit as she said his name, and her arms itched to embrace him from behind.

He turned warily to look down at her, his eyes slightly darker from a neglected week of lingering thirst. Their color was more like maple syrup than honey, but they still held the promising warmth of a cool autumn morning that heats to a summer's afternoon. Darker, but still unsettlingly gorgeous, nonetheless.

"Hm?"

Her heart fluttered at his gentle acknowledgment, and as his eyes rested on her she could think of nothing but how deep her resistance had worn since she'd starting fighting the urge to kiss his cheek every time he furrowed his eyes like that.

With trembling fingers she pushed around the coats in the open closet and selected the burgundy wool scarf that had been buried in the very back for nearly a month.

"Wear this one," she said softly as she slipped off the black scarf he already wore in exchange for the thicker one she had tugged from the closet. "It's warmer..."

The comforting scents of cherry and cinnamon clung to the fabric, and as she lifted her arms to tuck it around his neck, the fragrance was suddenly twice as strong.

His eyes never parted from hers as she daintily arranged the scarf, taking her merry time because it was awfully harder than she thought it would be to stop touching him once she had allowed her hands to start. But he did not look like he cared for her to stop right away, and so she kept fumbling with the fabric, indulging herself with a few accidental brushes of her knuckles against the sides of his neck.

She wasn't quite certain if she had just imagined the way his chest seemed to rise and fall much more profusely as her hands lingered innocently against him. It was almost as if he wished her to see just how deeply he could breathe if he wanted to. He was fascinatingly receptive of her eccentric ministrations, nothing more than a distant-but-content and slightly exhausted half-smile slow to curve upon his lips. It was hard to ignore the steady rhythm of his breathing beneath her hands, and even harder to ignore the liquid warmth that filled her chest when she noticed her own breath matched his exactly.

It had to do with the way her hands could sense the strength of his body, the buried warmth of whatever he retained beneath the layers he wore. Her touch was addicted to the general _feel _of him, the way he stood so still for her as she pulled and pressed the fabric over his chest. And...he was so much taller than her, this close. It was indecent, really, how much she enjoyed that.

Quivering in delight, her fingers trailed down his front and off his body, having finished their job well over a minute ago.

To her mild astonishment, Carlisle looked as if he would have liked nothing better than to cry as she released him, even with the tender taint of that worn-down smile still sound upon his lips. But she supposed this had more to do with his obligation to face the horrid weather than it did the withdrawal of her touch.

"Thank you."

He whispered the words – no, they were less than a whisper – and they slipped like the lightest silk right through her ears to cushion her heavy heart.

She could see it so plainly in his eyes then, the _sheer gratitude_ at having been cared for. Even if it was the simplest of gestures, even if he never _could _catch a cold, with or without something to keep him warm. The appreciation in his gaze was nothing short of exhilarating to her humble heart, and all she could manage was a weak smile and an equally weak quiver of lashes as he faced her for that drawn-out moment.

He turned away with that slumbery balm of contentment weighing his eyelids down, and just as he reached for the door handle, she felt a pang of regret that she had not thought to force a pair of gloves over his bare hands as well.

But after one blink, he was out the door and was greedily swallowed into the dark belly of the storm.

She watched him for as long as he was visible, which was not long enough, and she silently cursed the clouds for being cruel and careless enough to rain down on her beloved. When he was out of her sight, she stared sadly down at the black scarf she still held in her hands, stroking the fabric with a melancholy smile.

Whatever patients he had rushed out to visit tonight would likely welcome him with fervent arms into their homes from the bitter storm. Their families would no doubt sit him down by the fire to help him dry off, and force him to drink warm soup or hot tea that he could never hope to digest properly. Then they might notice the cranberry colored scarf that rested around his neck, but they would never know that the woman who loved him had placed it there in hopes that he would see how much she cherished him.

Esme sighed and tucked the black scarf back into the closet with all the others, slid the doors closed, and gently drew the quilts over her fruitless desires.

Her feet grew heavier with each step toward the parlor, anticipating Edward's groan of disapproval when he heard her thinking how much she really needed that game of chess right now, regardless of how precious that chess set was.

But when she reached the open door, she was surprised to find that he had pulled up a second chair to the table – her favorite chair with the purple cushions and the lattice backing. The marble game board had been carefully arranged, each piece in its square where it belonged.

With a grateful smile, she sat herself across from him for a game, and no words needed to be said. At least not for a the first few seconds.

"I wonder where he was going..." She couldn't help herself.

Edward chewed on one frosted-crystal rook as he pretended to contemplate his next move, avoiding her question for as long as possible.

She scoffed. Apparently he thought those chess pieces "precious" enough to sink his teeth into.

He rolled his eyes and hastily set the crystal playing piece back down on the table. "I wasn't biting it."

She pursed her lips and stared him down with her intimidating scarlet eyes until he spewed the details she sought.

"He went to see Annaliese, alright?"

"_Again_?"

"Yes, _again_," he chuckled dimly, pushing a random pawn with one finger into the next square. "Have a heart. She has pneumonia."

Frankly offended at being accused of not having a heart, Esme crossed her arms and sat back in her chair, suddenly not finding those purple cushions as comfortable as she'd once thought them to be.

Edward glared up at her from beneath his lashes.

Grudgingly, she unfolded her arms and heaved a breath, eyes wandering thoughtfully over the board before making a strategic move in defense.

"Check."

His expression was hilariously shocked, wide eyes burning the board in disbelief, but she was not even fazed.

She listened as he swiped a few pieces around while she looked out the window at the pounding rain and wind-strangled trees. The wind had certainly gotten worse, and it already looked as if there was a flood on the rise. She worried for Carlisle.

"Think he'll drown, Esme?" Edward's voice was soft, mocking. "I'll bet the English Channel was nothing compared to this."

He gave a little chuckle, and she wasn't sure whether he was being condescending or simply trying to show her the senselessness of her fears.

Her eyes turned back to him to find him smirking gently at her from over the chess board. She noticed several squares had been alleviated of their inconvenient possessors, but she couldn't bring herself to care that Edward was competitive enough to cheat at a simple chess game.

He frowned at the awareness of her thoughts, and it was his turn to sit back grouchily in his seat with his arms crossed over his chest.

She started to decide her next move, lifting the tiny crystal knight between her fingers. Having been distracted before, it was too late when she realized that it was not her most promising move available. But Edward would have reprimanded her had she set the piece back down after already picking it up.

Her eyes lazily swept over the intricately carved horse's head in her palm, its empty icy eyes staring sadly back up at her. After a moment's pause she slowly set the piece down on the board in defeat.

"I'm sorry, Edward." She pulled herself upright and tucked her chair underneath the table while he watched her with knitted brows.

"Why?" He sounded sincerely disappointed that she was abandoning him.

"I just want to be alone for a while," she whispered, taking a step toward the waiting hallway.

"No, you don't."

She whipped around to face him in surprise at his presumptuous retort.

"You know that will only worsen your mood," he said, slightly exasperated.

She did know this. And this was precisely why she desired it.

Some part of her _reveled _in loneliness, in concern, in pity. Some part of her needed to embrace that anguish before she could be free of it.

She let her gaze drop to the ground as he listened to her thoughts.

"Fine," he whispered at last. With a quick hand, he carefully cleaned the table, organizing everything back to the way it was before.

Even Esme's footsteps sounded sad to her ears as she walked through the hall with her own arms bound tightly around her waist. With the lull in her thoughts came the recognition of thirst. She had not hunted in some time; she would have to find time to feed tomorrow.

Upon reaching the top of the staircase, she suddenly shied away at the idea of sitting alone in her dark bedroom with the storm beating against the windows to taunt her.

It was fine right here, in the middle of the house, with no open view to the outside world. She was safe here.

So she sat herself down on the very top stair, let her knees come together and her elbows rest upon them like a bored child who was waiting for her parents to come home.

From here, she could watch the front door down in the foyer. She could see just a few dark droplets on the little window by the closet. She could see the handle of the closet door. She could see the shallow puddle of rainwater that was still on the floor from when Carlisle had opened the door to leave her.

She watched it evaporate.

The house seemed so empty when it was missing only one person. A sparse company of three people hardly managed to properly fill such a large residence, but with Carlisle gone, there was something frightening about the house, as if the rumors about it being haunted became true in his absence.

The house was controlled under Carlisle's presence. Edward was too wild to control the spirits, and if there were any, he might have joined their cavorting himself. Esme was too lost to have controlled anything, much less a house full of ghosts. But Carlisle held a quiet power wherever he made himself known; the house was calmed by him, perhaps in some way understanding that he was its master. Any distressed souls that may have existed on these grounds would surrender their restless anxiety to his holy will.

Just beneath where Esme sat in thought, Edward's brisk steps took him to the music room, and a moment later, a well-practiced piece came to life on the piano keys, echoing serenely throughout the halls.

The music dripped into her mind as she half-listened to it from her perch on the top of the stairs, and it calmed her worrisome thoughts. She had no reasons to worry, but it was something she still could not help. The music, however, did help.

It was the song Edward had dedicated to her, back when she had been too shy to walk in on him when he was composing alone. Back when she had not even known the doctor's _name._

Now, she knew so much more about her doctor, so much more than just his name_. _And this was mildly thrilling to her. The music seemed to remind her of these things.

It was quite jarring to think how far she had come – how far _they _had come – since then. Yet with an eternity still ahead of them, time was insignificant.

Her heart felt a little more swollen with every note Edward's practiced fingers plucked, knowing he was playing it to placate her. He was reaching out to her, trying to soothe her with the song she had once deemed her favorite.

The music drowned out the sounds of the storm as she sailed slowly down the stairs. She passed the foyer window without looking outside once, and she passed the study without being tempted to open the doors. Her feet carried her to the music room at the end of the hall, and left her to stand idle in its entryway.

It still astounded her, the way Edward could look so lost as he played that piano, but he still looked more at home here than anywhere else. Everything about the way he moved and the way his eyes glittered with the more passionate chords showed her just how smitten he was with his music. Once he was here, he never wanted to leave. She believed he never truly _did _leave.

Esme slowly approached the side of his piano as he drew out the final chord, and the beautiful strains came to a reluctant end as his skilled fingers abandoned the keys one by one.

There was a quiet air of triumph in his stance as he turned around on the bench to face her, as if knowing his clever method for calling her to him had worked exactly as he had planned.

"I came up with a name for your song," he said informatively.

"Hm?" Her eyebrows lifted softly in interest.

"You said it did not have to be creative," he reminded, a smile creeping onto his face.

"Yes, I did say that," she recalled with a nod, feeling the beginnings of a smile herself.

"Do you want to hear what I've decided to call it?" he asked after an amusing pause.

She nodded. "Of course."

"You'll laugh," he warned, now grinning from ear to ear, and all it did was press her curiosity more.

She sighed with a grudging smile. "Out with it."

"I call it 'Esme's Favorite.'"

She was silent for a moment, fighting the light laughter that threatened to bubble up inside of her. All it took was a twitch of her shoulders to make it spring free, and she was giggling in a way only Edward could make her giggle.

"It took you that long to think of such a simple name?" she asked pityingly between breaths, to which he gave a glare of mocking ungratefulness.

"It took me less time to _compose_ the damn thing," he muttered with a charming smile.

"Edward, you're too much," she sighed as she stepped over to him, one fond hand sweeping through his messy copper hair as her lips placed a soft kiss on his forehead. He was so wonderfully cold under her touch; she longed to warm him in any way she could. She stayed there long enough to whisper a genuine '_thank you' _against his temple before she withdrew to smile down at him.

His eyes twitched thoughtfully as he replied with a tired smile, "You need a little music in your life."

That she did.

* * *

_**A/N:**__ To read a character study I did of Carlisle that discusses his reasons for being a doctor and the struggles he has with both his feelings for Esme and his faith, you can read "Chapter 6: Caduceus" in my companion story, __**Behind Stained Glass.**_


	24. When Pandora Grows Wings

**Chapter 24: **

**When Pandora Grows Wings**

* * *

"Don't take offense to this, Esme, but...what the hell are you doing?"

Edward's voice was impressively mild as he approached from the wide open garden gate, dragging his heavy feet along behind him. Esme had been scrunched over the edge of the decorative fountain in the center of the garden for over an hour now, trying to scrape the last of the green muck from between the vibrant blue tiles.

"I've decided to try and clean a little bit before the weather gets any worse," she explained as her scrubbing hand sped up slightly.

"You realize it's only going to get dirtier when the winter comes, don't you?"

Esme glared blearily up at Edward's face. "Well, you're quite the dream-dampener aren't you?"

He lifted his hands in a casual gesture of defense and smiled harmlessly as he backed away. "Someone has to be the voice of practicality around here."

She rolled her eyes good-naturedly and stepped over the well of the fountain to scrub the inner tiles.

"You should wait for the rain, and then you can have a nice swim," Edward joked from the corner, leaning his elbows over the edge as he watched her from above.

"Shoo, shoo," she giggled grudgingly with a wave of dismissal.

"Actually, this would make a very nice bath..." Edward continued to taunt her, running his hand along the smooth surface in consideration.

Esme sighed in loving exasperation and turned to him with a raised eyebrow. "Don't you have songs to compose?"

He forced a pout to keep from smiling, but thankfully this time he left her alone. She kept a careful ear out for his footsteps as he headed back toward the house.

Esme shook her head as she returned to her work, chiseling away at the grime and overgrowth until she could see the beautiful pure blue color underneath. Each tile she uncovered smiled its turquoise brilliance up at her in appreciation as she freed it from the dirt. The scrub-slosh-scrape of her busy hand was almost therapeutic, really. She could have spent hours working out here. Perhaps she would have time to scrub the rest of those statues too.

The warm-hearted caress of a chilly breeze swept across Esme's brow, coaxing her to bring her head up. Peeking over the rim of the fountain bowl, she watched several geese glide overhead toward the lake. One by one they landed in the water, never making a sound. And she thought they should have called out their winged victory to the rest of nature. Why, if she had been one of those geese, she would have announced her freedom to the world.

The scrub-slosh-scrape became lazy, then at last Esme stilled, hand poised in a lethargic arc over the tiles as her mesmerized eyes drifted down to the water. For one fast, wistful moment of fantasy, she sprouted her own pair of wings. Her feet lifted off the ground and she began her weightless ascent over the land, flying alongside those geese as they crossed the lake. She imagined fulfilling this whim right now, wondering where it would lead her, what delightfully deviant chain of events it would cause... But then her wings silently shredded themselves into feathers of thin air, her feet knocked against hard tile and she found herself, stuck again, stuffed inside an empty old fountain.

It struck Esme as strange that her heart's greatest desire was freedom when she somewhat already had it.

Edward had left the doors to the house open, but there was no plucking of the piano, no music perusing through them. He was ready at any moment to leap over the garden gate and tie her feet to the ground should she ever make _true _plans to fly away.

So it was a false freedom that she possessed.

Esme sighed heavily, bowing her head back into her work. As much as she would have liked to believe otherwise, it was not her imagination that conjured the sound of Edward's footsteps coming back to the garden.

All selfish operations aside, he should have known well enough by now that she was as prone to entertaining whimsical daydreams as she was to stay firmly bound to one place.

But he was only doing his duty.

She brushed her hair away from her face when she heard him approaching the fountain again, prepared in case he decided to toss a frog inside or play some sort of prank on her.

"Edward, I thought I told you to go back to your—"

As abruptly as she'd veered her head around, Esme saw that she was quite mistaken as to the identity of her intruder.

"Oh!" she squeaked, caught off guard by Carlisle's utterly confused but brilliantly amused face peering down at her from over the edge of the fountain. "I thought you'd be Edward," she stuttered, attempting to discreetly straighten her skirt in her awkward position. She discovered far too late that half her head was still flying away in the clouds. "I mean, you've been working so late all week. I didn't expect to find you home this early."

His smile was insultingly lovely as he let his blond head rest against one hand. "I didn't expect to find _you _inside the fountain."

Esme hadn't felt so terribly silly sitting inside an empty fountain before Carlisle had arrived. Now she realized, in grand timing, how ridiculous she must have looked. That man had a natural talent for walking in on her in the most embarrassing situations.

The glow of his beautiful face above her was so warm she could feel it giving her cheeks a sunburn.

She managed to smile bashfully, averting her eyes in speechless embarrassment. "I was just doing some outdoor cleaning. I suppose I got a little carried away."

"As long as you're enjoying yourself," Carlisle sighed with a slightly dubious chuckle as he surveyed the extent of her work so far. "If I'm being frank, I don't think I approve of your spending any amount of time inside a filthy old fountain."

Esme's smile faltered as she rose gingerly to her feet. "I wasn't inside it for very long," she defended insistently. "Besides, I'd already finished cleaning the outside of it."

Carlisle straightened himself up as he watched Esme begin to maneuver herself over the edge. His left arm lifted instinctively to aid her, and the moment she saw he was offering it for her to take, she took it. Well, more _snatched _it, really.

She winced at her eagerness, hoping he had been too preoccupied with the scum that surely stained the bottom of her skirt to notice. It was a happy accident that his sleeve happened to be rolled up to the elbow. She had to wonder if he was at all affected by the fact that both her hands now gripped his entirely bare forearm. Because _she_ was certainly affected by it.

"Well, that's a relief," he murmured half to himself as he helped her to the ground.

She drained her mind of all thoughts that lingered on the texture of his skin and let her hands drop from his arm before any ideas got into her head. She might have accidentally torn the rest of his sleeve apart with her fingernails, or something embarrassing like that.

"I must say it does look much nicer now," Carlisle commented as he studied the fountain from a distance, and she realized he was complimenting her work.

"Oh. Thank you." Esme stepped back to stand beside him and tilted her head to view it from his angle. "It will look even better once I've finished the inside as well."

He cleared his throat softly. "Well now don't spend _too _much time on it," he began carefully, and she accidentally shot him a sharp stare. He looked slightly defensive, quickly amending with a gentle tone, "I just mean that the winter will be here before we know it, and—"

"You and Edward think that I'm insane, don't you?" she blurted with an ungrateful pout.

He stared at her briefly in stark surprise, two fast blinks to edify his innocence. "Where would you get a preposterous idea like that?" His voice was struggling to keep steady, and she could clearly hear the lilting notes of amusement in his tone as he turned away to hide his face.

"You don't 'appreciate' my eccentricities together when I'm not around?" she pried doubtfully, straining for a glimpse of his profile.

Carlisle tamed his grin and turned to face her again as they walked away from the fountain. "Don't be silly, Esme. We find your enthusiasm for such things...lovable." His grin returned as he said the last word with a succinctly sweet chuckle, and she was helpless to smile back.

"Hm." Esme just couldn't find it in her to be bothered by his honesty. Not when a rather odd thing was happening to her then.

Carlisle's eyes, it seemed, were positively _caressing_ her. It was like every direction his eyes would turn simultaneously steered her very heart inside her chest. His eyes would move – tiny, rationally measured flickers across her face – as if he were searching for something he could never find. But he so thoroughly and so clearly _enjoyed_ this forever fruitless search.

"Carlisle?"

There was a moment – a true, "need to think back on it a thousand times but always come out baffled" moment – right as their gazes fastened to each other, like a key that finally finds the lock it was made for. And in that tragically inadequate span of seconds, Esme felt as if she had revealed some detrimental, guard-at-all-costs secret through her gaze. But at the first downy blink of his lashes, it was all swept away like a minnow caught in the current.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he apologized, shaking his head, some errant locks of blond trembling in the breeze. "It's just... your eyes are... like the sunset."

It was because of the very gaze which preceded this assessment that Esme was unable to feel anything more or less than stunned. For a moment she assumed she had misheard him, her mind spitting out the conjunctive syllables in refute and her heart laughing gaily at the poetic preposterousness of it all.

Composed, sweet, and perfectly still, she asked the doctor to repeat himself. "My eyes...are what?"

He cocked his head, a grin of fascination twisting his soft, teasing lips. His dimples were so deep she could have lost herself in them. Then, without precedent, he leaned slightly closer and lifted his finger to draw a tiny circle in the air, just inches from her open eye.

"The sunset," he repeated huskily. "You see, the outside is still red, but in the center it's just beginning to turn gold."

She could see his fingerprint as he pointed – every tiny swirl in the dizzy pattern, branded on the pad of his index finger.

"Oh..."

He lowered his hand and her gaze refocused on his face behind it.

"You've noticed, though, haven't you?" he asked.

While she would have never used such a flattering descriptor for her own eyes, Esme could not deny that she had noticed the difference in her reflection during the past week.

"Well, I've noticed a slight change, yes," she admitted sheepishly as every stone in the path beneath her feet seemed to soften into a cushion.

"Not so slight now, Bright Eyes."

She was looking down when he said it, but the boldly teasing touch of his voice was enough to enlighten her to the smothering smile that surely still shone on his face.

In her mind, Esme promptly forgave Carlisle for five days of distance.

"That's a good thing isn't it?" she murmured.

His grin was a shock of white sunshine. "It's a very good thing."

Feeling almost irresponsibly giddy at this exchange of words, Esme smiled furtively to herself as she walked slightly ahead of him, all cares for which color stone she stepped on out of mind.

They walked side by side for a little while, a subtle déjà vu from their first time in the garden together. They followed the very same path, passed the very same statues, and enjoyed the very same company. Alone.

"...like Florence," she heard Carlisle murmur softly.

"I'm sorry?"

He smiled apologetically and spoke more clearly for her. "I said, this garden reminds me of Florence."

"Oh, yes, you told me that once," she remembered fondly.

"I lived there for a few years – I had a garden very similar to this one. I have paintings of it. I've been meaning to show them to you."

"Yes... You told me that as well."

"Oh. So I did." He smiled a bit sheepishly, absently fiddling with the pale green necktie that peeked out from beneath his white sweater. "Rather warm out, isn't it?" he remarked.

She stared at him in surprise, wondering if perhaps he felt that warmth for same reasons she did.

It was not that warm out. The sky was completely overcast and in fact, it was rather cool. But oddly enough, she had to agree with him.

"Yes, it is warm. Strange after such a cold night."

He agreed with a nod, not really looking at her, but still picking idly at his collar. "It will be a shame to see all of these flowers die soon."

"I'm hoping to plant more next year," she informed him eagerly. At his surprised expression, her smile faltered a bit, embarrassed that she did not stop to think he might not share this particular enthusiasm.

But his smile was just as polite, if not a little teasing as he mused, "Women really never _do _outgrow their fondness for flowers."

Esme smirked to herself, impressed at his wit by which to quote her quite accurately. "No, we don't." She superstitiously stepped over a crack in the pathway, stopping for a moment ahead of him as he caught up to her. "You see, over there I want a few rosebushes – white, not red." She stood on her tiptoes, pointing to every place she mentioned as he humored her by listening attentively to her plans. "And over there I want lilacs... And here, I think a row of daffodils."

"Hm. Yes, that sounds lovely." And the strange thing was, he truly sounded as if he cared.

At least a little bit.

"Oh, this garden could be so beautiful. Not that it isn't already...but these statues could use some work," she mentioned off-handedly as they passed the familiar marble figures. Esme had memorized them all by now. There were two cherubs – one with ivy covering half its face, and one with a broken wing. Then there was the tall, robed woman with the vase on her shoulder. After that there was a young boy with his hand shading his eyes while he looked into the sun, and a young girl holding a basket. Once she passed those two children statues, Esme knew very well which one was next. She usually avoided it because it felt so indecent to look at – the erotic one – the one with the kissing couple.

A mild panic rose within her as their path led them closer to the statue she dreaded. It was absurd that she was becoming so worked up over a simple _statue. _But even that thought could not keep her from practically chewing her nails in nervousness. She wanted to plan some excuse to turn around, but before she could start her scheme, they were already at the end of the path. And Carlisle's eyes were fixed on that very statue.

He had paused contentedly in front of the pair of romantically entwined marble figures, not an ounce of shame in his stance. His head was cocked slightly to one side, his hands in his pockets as he stared at them for a long moment, seemingly lost in deep thought.

Esme stopped in her tracks to watch him precariously from behind, waiting with bated breath for him to make some insightful artistic remark. At least she hoped if he had something to say, it would be strictly_ artistic_ in nature.

But to her extreme surprise, he had started laughing – mild, soft, almost secretive laughter – but laughter nonetheless.

"What is so funny?" she asked tentatively, worried he hadn't meant for her to hear it.

"I was just thinking of something that happened to me while I was living in Italy," he explained with a shake of his head as he resumed walking ahead of her.

"Well, you can't just say that and_ not_ tell me what happened!" she insisted with a light tug on the back of his shirt.

She was insatiably curious now, especially assuming the cause of his laughter had somehow been linked to an erotic sculpture.

"Hm, well if you must know," he surrendered with an indulgent laugh. "I had been living in an apartment in Venice for a short while and there had been a rather attractive young lady who had lived in the room before me..."

Esme's stomach sunk as the sudden idea entered her head that Carlisle had somehow been romantically involved with this woman. This young, attractive woman.

But he quickly eased her suspicions as he continued his story. "Apparently her affections were held in high regards by the male population in the area, and on my first night staying there I heard a rather enthusiastic young man serenading outside my balcony."

"Oh, my!" Esme broke into a fit of giggles, more out of relief than anything else. "Did he realize _you _were the one living there?"

"He was, I regret to say, shocked beyond compare when he saw_ me_ opening the door to the balcony," Carlisle laughed richly at the memory. "I felt badly for the poor bloke. I hope he recovered well enough."

She sent him a lopsided smirk. "Ah, but have _you _recovered yet, Doctor?"

Still slightly breathless from his laughter, he shook his head sincerely as he considered her teasing question. "You know, I honestly don't believe I have."

The sound of her chiming giggles complemented his residual deep laughter rather well, if she did say so herself. It felt _natural _for once to be sharing a laugh with him over something they both found worthy of humor. With every little story he told her from his past, she felt closer to him, more familiar with where he had come from and what he had seen. It only bothered her that she could not recount interesting stories of her own past to tell him.

He smiled charmingly at her as their laughter died down, slowing his stride to a pace that would require great patience, even for a human to maintain. In fact, he had all but stopped walking completely.

Esme had been pleasantly distracted by the fond gleam in his honeyed eyes, so much that she was entirely unprepared for when his gaze fell to her feet. His eyebrows immediately scrunched together, breaking the moment.

"Was there something wrong with the shoes I bought for you?"

Esme looked down guiltily, bringing one bare toe to rub self-consciously against her other bare ankle.

"Oh, no, I just...prefer walking without shoes."

"I gathered as much," he nodded with a knowing smirk.

She looked up squarely into his eyes then, and smiling her lopsided smile, she whispered plainly, "You _do _think that I'm insane, don't you?"

Carlisle grinned broadly as he gallantly opened the garden gate for her. "Only a little bit," he whispered secretively back.

The tiny flutters of her eyelashes as she looked back at him over her shoulder were completely accidental.

"Come on inside, then. I'll show you those paintings."

Those were the best sort of words to hear.

She smiled tentatively as Carlisle took her to the study and gestured for her to follow him up the small spiral staircase. Such a curious child she was – she had wanted to climb those silly old stairs since she had first looked inside this room. They were too tight to walk up comfortably as she stepped behind him, and they made tiny iron squeaks under her weight, which made them even more wonderful.

On the narrow second level of his study there was a passage of sorts, hidden behind one of the newer looking bookcases. Carlisle slid open the false door while she watched in fascination, and he looked back at her with a very Edward-esque grin as he led her inside the small room. It was a cramp space, just enough room for perhaps five or six people to stand comfortably, but it was only because the floor was strewn with mysterious objects draped in white sheets, and an antique writing desk with several unlit candles on its surface.

"I know I promised to show you these paintings, back when we spoke of the Impressionists?" He lifted one of the ghostly drapes off of the table against the back wall, revealing four canvases of the flora of Florence.

Esme gasped in delight, brushing past him to get a closer look.

The paintings themselves were gorgeous, even in the inadequate light that peeked into the small room. She examined each one in turn while Carlisle shuffled things around behind her. In a few seconds a bright light filled the space. She looked back to see that he had unboarded a tiny hidden window on the wall across from the paintings on display.

The glaze of the oil paint still glistened despite its age. The works looked to be in the precise style of Monet and Renoir. Each canvas had been signed at its bottom left corner, not by a famous name, but by a name that was greatly illegible.

In the first canvas, the artist had clearly sought to represent a silent but watchful party of several small marble statues, not unlike the ones in the Chartercrest gardens. The figures themselves were delightfully _non-finito, _either by the will of the paintbrush or the raw mind of the one who had sculpted them. Everything but the creamy color of the statuary was speckled in fitful shades of green and gold.

The second canvas was smaller to fit a far simpler subject. A single tree with pale periwinkle blossoms that seemed to glow against the piny tones behind them. The painter's style was particularly sensitive to light refracting over the air, as little white dots appeared in the strangest of places, all over the canvas like tiny springtime snowflakes.

The third was a closer, more intimate composition of several detailed rose bushes, all different colors, rendered so bright and fluffy they looked like frosting flowers on a cake of green.

In the fourth canvas, a full view of the modest yet elaborate garden was shown, and the edge of a stately house in the near background could be seen, peeking in from one side of the canvas. There was lattice siding and a white pillar and a few steps leading down from a porch. Esme smiled fondly at the thought that this quick series of brushstrokes had once been home to the good doctor.

"Do you ever miss it?" she asked softly, eyes still fixated on the beautiful quartet of canvases before her.

"Europe?" He said the word with strained reverence as he stepped forward to stand by her side.

"Mmhm. Your home there?" She pointed shyly toward the distant house in the last painting.

Her eyes wandered to Carlisle as he thought for a long, profound moment. "Yes...sometimes," he admitted wistfully, two fingers reaching up to caress the crude strokes of the house's pale brick siding. "I was lonely, though."

Her heart seemed to find it deliciously repulsive whenever he uttered the word "lonely" in his hushed, humble voice. Thinking of Carlisle all alone never failed to make her poor heart whimper in pain.

Desperate not to continue in such a somber tone of conversation, Esme shifted her focus to the brightest painting of the group. "These roses are exquisite," she remarked, cocking her head to view the frothy baubles of paint that somehow resembled flowers. "Had you planted them yourself?"

He did not respond in succinct time as he normally would have, and her concern prompted her eyes to link with his face yet again. He looked as if he had been caught in a slightly disturbing but thrilling dream – his eyes were wide and glistening as if in fright, but his lips were set peacefully, as were his fair golden brows. "Yes..." he whispered at last to answer her. "I...tended to them each spring." He almost winced as the words slipped from his mouth, and she wondered what could have been so distressing about those roses to make him cringe at such a seemingly innocent recollection.

"Oh."

She watched him shift uncomfortably, swallow, and blink a few times, reuniting his senses to the present.

Her lips had already parted, ready to ask him about the lilac tree in the second painting when the blaring bells of the telephone rang for the doctor's attention.

He paused for a moment as if processing what the familiar sound was telling him. Looking regretful and a bit annoyed, he muttered a hassled "_Excuse me_" before he dashed out the door, leaving her in a whirling breeze of confusion.

He had not even left her with orders to cover up the paintings or close the bookcase that blocked the passage. Like the good preserver of art she was, Esme took the time to drape the paintings with the sheet again, and she carefully slid the door to the secret room back into place. It was slightly crooked and not closed all the way, but it didn't matter. She tried.

Carlisle answered the call, murmuring soothing words of reassurance to the "_Mrs. Harkhurst"_ on the other line. The surname had become a familiar one lately, and Esme grew subtly more suspicious by the day that Carlisle favored this particular family above all others.

After he received the call, he was gone for the rest of the night.

However, the day following their impromptu rendezvous in the garden, Carlisle was, rather shockingly, not so possessed by his own doctorly stress. Esme could not have been more grateful for the intermission, but she had the feeling that the second act would creep up on her sooner than she expected. So she took great advantage of this precious time to soak in the fleeting sunshine that was Carlisle's company.

She made a habit of seeing him to the door when he left in the mornings, not just greeting him when he returned. She would organize things for him if he asked her to, and she kept everything orderly and up to date while he was away. She never thought of it in the more favorable of ways: that they were working together to run this house. It was simply something they did; they would naturally cooperate living under the same roof. But she could not deny how very _familiar _it made them feel toward each other.

One chilly morning when Esme saw Carlisle out the door, he had turned to her with his sweet lips curved into a smile that was beautifully askew, his eyes lit like beads of summertime, and he had said_ "Farewell"_ instead of _"Goodbye." _

The dated slip had not been marked by his embarrassment as it ordinarily might have. He would often dismiss his "old speak" with a sheepish shake of his head and a hasty correction of more modern favor. But this time he had not apologized for the old-fashioned choice of word. He hadn't even _noticed _it.

To this, Esme gave lengthy sigh of infatuation as soon as he was out of earshot.

It was infuriating to have to return to her library that morning and watch Carlisle leave for the hospital again. As she had feared, his ridiculously busy schedule had come back to haunt them once again, leaving her very little spare time to spend with him.

She could always have the company of Edward, but it was not the same and they both knew that. Being with Edward was like being with a friend or a brother. She did not have to be so wary of her every word and motion around him – she could be natural. She was slowly coming closer to being like that around Carlisle, but there would always be that unspoken barrier between them that kept her from being completely relaxed. There was no way for Esme to pick and choose whose company she truly liked them both equally, just in vastly different ways.

She liked being with Carlisle because of the little fluttery feelings he churned up inside her heart. She liked being alone in a room with him because he would lower his voice to that gentle murmur and she could never grow tired of hearing him speak like that. She liked it when he showed her things and shared his past with her – it made her feel important, like her company was just as precious.

But the flighty, weightless sensations she felt while with Carlisle could grow very exhausting after a short period of time. When she needed a moment to remind herself that gravity was still a working force in the world, she could never conjure a complaint to her time spent with Edward. He was unceasingly entertaining to her no matter what mood he happened to be in.

What Edward shared most in common with his father was his wonderful way of telling stories. Like Carlisle, he had a talent for drawing her in with his voice and the things he recounted...and the things he just as often fabricated.

There was a spooky old tree at the West end of the Chartercrest property – the kind with a great, gaping black hole in its trunk that one might find a pair of squinty yellow eyes peering out of at night.

"There must be a great something evil lurking inside that old tree, don't you think?" he had asked her while they were strolling about the grounds together before it rained.

She gave him a warm red glare of warning. "Don't you start with your horror stories."

Edward uttered a gloriously mischievous cackle of sorts and dashed toward the tree in question with his shoelaces dragging along the grass behind him. His laces were never tied. He kept them that way on purpose – he liked to be a deviant.

"Should we have a look?" he proposed in a voice that clearly mocked Carlisle's notorious politeness.

She shoved his shoulder and pushed past him to show that she was not frightened by that stupid old tree. Standing up on the tips of her toes, Esme peeked inside the rotted black hole.

"The only evil lurking inside this tree is that wretched colony of termites," she sniffed, backing away.

"Pity." Edward pouted. "I'd thought there might finally be some proof that this property was actually haunted."

"_Haunted_, darling?" she teased. "Don't be silly."

"You're one to talk! You think I don't hear your little chats with your 'ghost sisters' when you're looking for something _you've _misplaced?"

She fumed a little, embarrassed. "I _know_ I never took my oil paints out of the library. They haven't just walked off on me."

Edward looked slightly uncomfortable. "You probably used them all up and didn't even realize it."

She shook her head. "Unlikely."

"Well there's no use in blaming the ghosts that don't exist. Send Carlisle out for new paints."

"I can't do that." She bit her lip. "He's given me quite enough as it is."

Edward's voice softened in understanding. "He doesn't mind. He likes it, really."

She smiled fondly to herself, blinking up at the rainclouds. "I know."

"You mean a great deal to him, Esme. He would never deny you anything you wanted."

Her heart plummeted at the blatant untruth in his words.

_But he would deny me romantic love. _

"That isn't what I was talking about," Edward said sternly.

Esme sighed in annoyance with herself and turned away as the first raindrop settled on her head.

Edward was, personally, quite fed up.

For the past several days, he would leave the house mysteriously in the middle of the night. Esme knew he had not been running off to town – he had gone to the North and not to the South when he ran. She also knew that he had not been obsessively hunting every other night. If anyone needed frequent feedings it was _her _and not the boy.

One morning she heard Edward and Carlisle speaking about it secretively – this mysterious place he would visit in the night.

Carlisle could search the shelves of every medical stock in the country, and he would never find a cure for Esme's curiosity. He knew she would ask him about it eventually – one night, perhaps when she was bored.

He had anticipated correctly.

"Now what is this 'secret place' you and Edward speak of so fondly?"

Esme had been expecting a taunting grin or a teasing, _"If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret now, would it?" _But neither of these was what she received from the indulgent doctor.

"You're a regular Pandora, aren't you, Esme?"

She quirked an eyebrow, well aware that he could not see her from his stoop near the fireplace. So she admired her own well-crafted expression in the mirror, and shallow as it may have been to think such a thing, she thought the particular face made her look quite pretty.

Pity he hadn't seen it.

"Yes, I suppose I am," she agreed proudly with his assessment, her reflection grinning a deceptively sweet grin back at her. Just as quickly, her eyes narrowed suspiciously at his back. "Is there something wrong that?" she challenged.

"No, no," he laughed somewhat robustly, back still turned to her. "There's nothing wrong with curiosity. I always say it may have killed the cat, but it can't kill you. You _are _immortal, after all."

"Now, wait a moment!" she interrupted with a laugh of surprise. "Edward once told me those _exact _words when I was—"

She quickly caught herself before she could reveal that she had been sneaking around in the doctor's study before she'd been given formal welcome. Carlisle turned to her briefly, eyebrows lifted in question. "Yes?"

"Well... Edward once used that same expression," she shrugged cryptically. "The one you used just now."

Carlisle smirked as he turned away. "The one about the cat and being immortal?" he asked, the words a prudent flourish in his accent. "That's _always_ been my expression. He must have stolen it from me."

She tightened her lips to keep from laughing. "I never would have guessed." Gingerly, she approached him, watching as he pointlessly poked the burning embers around in the ashes. "So then about this 'secret place'..."

He turned his head up from the fireplace with a radiant grin, and that was all it took for her to know exactly what he was going to say next. "I can take you there, if you'd like."

"Tonight?" she chirped in disbelief.

He nodded simply, grin still in place. "It's a rather long way's away, now," he warned. "If you favor being out for a good part of the night—?"

"Oh, Carlisle!" His name slipped off her tongue like rogue velvet, but she had been too caught up in her excitement to flinch. "Not that I don't like this house, but I would simply die to spend the _entire_ night outside for a change!"

"You want to go, then?"

"Yes." She grinned without argument. "Take me there."

So he donned his prince-like boots and left his jacket on the banister because the night was warm enough that he wouldn't be needing it. The shirt he wore beneath was pale gray and loose around his chest, made from a thin, downy fabric that Esme supposed was only meant to be worn underneath other layers. She was quietly thrilled that he felt comfortable enough to present himself so casually to her, and this made her more at ease to drop any formalities with regards to her ensemble as well.

Esme did not bother putting on her shoes because she was too excited to concentrate on a task as pointless as fastening buckles. She left her sweater on top of Carlisle's jacket because she wanted it to be smothered in his scent by the time they came back. The dress she wore beneath was quite thin and showed more of her bare shoulders than she had been raised to feel comfortable showing to a man, but tonight she felt it appropriate to make an exception.

Carlisle smiled a secret sort of smile as he opened the door for her, and a twist of excitement struck her as he swept his fingers around her wrist and made a dash for the forest.

"We're almost there now, yes?" she would ask him every several minutes, and the teasing taste of his laughter would echo back at her as he slipped through the trees with her hand still in tow.

At the mid-way point of their journey, their hands bid each other farewell as Carlisle sped ahead, now almost more eager than the Pandora on his heels.

Cool evening wind and monster-sized spruce trees and rushing forest shadows later, they were standing on the clear cut line that divided the woods from a wide open meadow of tall grass filled with nothing but crisp, silent moonlight and... horses.

At least twenty of them. And they were gorgeous and so at _home _here in the middle of nowhere. Their scent was titillating but not irresistible to Esme's keen thirst; deep beneath her will she found a foundation as bright as a moonlit morning, in the presence of the man beside her.

"They're beautiful," she murmured to her silent companion, staggered by the sight.

"They're wild horses," Carlisle explained in a hushed voice, watching them with his fiery eyes from behind her. "They belong to no one, at least as far as Edward and I have known. They're always out here at this time of night."

"Where did they come from?"

He shrugged one shoulder, a brisk splash of pity in his eyes. "Just lost strays, I suppose."

"I don't think I've ever seen horses this close before," Esme said wonderingly as her eyes followed the flowing tails of two twin gray mares.

Carlisle glanced at her with a doubtful eye, one hand reaching up to casually cling to the low branch of a hovering tree. "Oh, I think I recall a horse or two on your father's plantation in Ohio..."

The familiar sting of a forgotten memory returned.

"Really?" Her eyes turned down in shame with a sad wince. "I don't remember."

"I'm sorry," he apologized in an achingly soft voice that only worsened the sting she felt inside her heart.

"It's fine," she whispered forgivingly, and wrapped her arms protectively around her middle.

"I remember riding back when I was human," he spoke conversationally to draw the subject away from her.

A private smile quirked on her lips as she envisioned a flush-faced, human Carlisle riding bareback atop a fine steed.

He continued wistfully, "It's somewhat strange, but in my most vivid memory that I can recall, I am riding a horse."

She looked over at him in surprise. His words were perfectly drenched in the fair, honeyed flow of his accent – there was no denying his British heritage when he spoke like that.

"And where were you riding off to on horseback, Doctor Cullen?" She had meant the words to be teasing, but he took her question in utmost seriousness and answered it as such.

"I was...running away from someone." His eyes lifted distantly as his grip on the tree branch above him weakened.

"Oh." Immediately, Esme supposed that _someone _was Carlisle's father.

Looking at the kind doctor now, it was hard for Esme to imagine anyone treating him with any semblance of cruelty. As a son, she thought, he would have been perfect – loyal, honest, responsible, and no doubt as pious as any pastor could want. There was a Biblical essence to his features alone – his face and his hair, like milk and honey – his eyes were pure, tirelessly pooling with care and compassion for everything he looked upon. How anyone could refuse to show Carlisle love was so far beyond Esme, she all but cried at the injustice of it.

"Was it your father?" she asked, tempted to hiss the words.

"No." He shook his head in mild surprise. "No, I never ran away from home."

The strain in her voice relaxed into gentle curiosity. "Who were you running away from?"

His eyes mixed several conflicting emotions as he stared in an almost childish awe at the moon, lips parting hesitantly at first before he struggled to put the memories into words.

"I was in the house of a strange man." He blinked his glossy golden eyes, brow furrowed with the strain to remember why. "I don't remember who he was, but he was very cruel to his maidservant, and..." He paused, the exquisite dawn of recollection passing over his handsome face. "She confessed to me that she wished to be set free from her master, and so one night, I took her away... on that horse."

Esme breathed a silent gasp, fascinated by the broken memories he offered freely to the night. She waited with bated breath for Carlisle to continue the story but he never did. He stared out at the field of horses as if it were an ocean of cresting waves, as if it were worthy of much deeper contemplation than he had recognized before. She was stubbornly spellbound.

"What happened then?" she pressed, her breath short.

"I...I can't remember," he sighed, looking sheepishly saddened at the poorness of his recollection. "Besides several memories of my father and the night of my transformation, that is still my most significant human memory," he whispered revealingly.

Somehow it felt so safe to speak of secretive things out here. There was no one for miles around, and the shadows did not feel invasive or frightening; they felt protective and soothing.

"You were very brave to do something like that for someone you hardly knew," Esme whispered her admiration freely in the darkness. Her gaze passed down his face and rested on the collar of his neck for a moment before rising back up to his eyes. "You're _still _brave," she added softly, the words tugging courage from her heart to speak them out loud. "To do what you do every day, to help humans even though it...hurts you."

He watched her carefully as she drank in his face, his eyes shining with humble appreciation. No matter how quiet that glow in his eyes was, he looked almost thrilled by her praise.

"It does hurt sometimes," he conceded with a tilt of his head, one dimple flickering its betrayal in his cheek. "But the happiness I receive from doing it far outshines that occasional hurt."

His voice was so quiet, but so deliciously wise it gave her chills. She could not argue with his account – after all, he had remained firmly loyal to this lifestyle for centuries, even without a gentle voice of encouragement over his shoulder.

"I wish I could be the same way," she admitted in a low voice, her eyes swerving back across the open pasture in longing. "I wish I could be brave."

He uttered a soft note of disagreement in the back of his throat before countering her claim. "Bravery does not have to be aggressive, Esme," he said, his voice hushed as they watched the horses glide through the moonlit grass. "You are brave in your own way. You may not realize it now, but you are."

She looked up at him doubtfully, but he suddenly smiled, and if she had been a marionette, that smile would have sliced her strings straight across.

"Your insatiable curiosity, for one, does manage to bring you into some..._challenging _situations," he said, his lips twisting with the effort to better contain his grin as he spoke. "You _did _agree to come all the way out here tonight, after all."

Esme hadn't thought of this as being very brave before. To be free in the wilderness was a risk in itself for her. Once, it had been her greatest fear. But it was impossible to fear for her control with Carlisle by her side. Why, it was almost impossible to fear _anything _when he was standing here with her.

"That's different," she breathed, catching his gaze. "I feel...safe when I have you with me."

Where in God's great name did _that _come from?

As soon as she wished vehemently to take the words back, though, Carlisle's face was stricken with something so fleeting, but so imperceptibly glorious that she nearly staggered backwards from the shock of its spark.

He looked so _young_, in that loose gray shirt he wore, with the fireflies floating behind him and his arm resting on that tree branch just beside his head. And just for one moment,Esme thought he looked completely torn between jubilation and disbelief, but in the absolute softest way. It was hardly there, but it was so very clear to her for just that split second when it struck her. His eyes reflected the moon, dipped in gold, and her heart tumbled backwards in her chest.

"Ah..." He began to speak, but astoundingly, his words abandoned him. He chased away the awkwardness with effortlessly silken chuckles until his voice returned, just as charming, and just as sincere. "Then I shall be here with you whenever I can be."

All the impossible warmth in her body made Esme feel like she was floating, and she considered this to be an adequate manifestation of her wing-sprouting daydreams. Sheepishly, she smiled her appreciation for the man who had practically promised to be her guardian angel.

* * *

_**A/N:**__ This was one of my absolute favorite chapters to write. I liked letting them share a moment of closeness. :) Please let me know what you think. _


	25. A Nuisance Called Pneumonia

**Chapter 25: **

**A Nuisance Called Pneumonia**

* * *

Sundays were glorious.

He was _here _on Sunday. His scent was vining around the halls like the spirit of sarsparilla, exotic thorns and notes and tickling all her senses.

She heard a single step, a fine shuffling sweep of his shoe against the floor in the hall, and her heart lost its balance with the thrill that he was near.

Apparently her accidental admission the other night had been worth it.

He wanted to make her feel safe by being close. But safety, when it came from Carlisle, was somehow not only a _feeling. _Safety was more a _sensation. _Everything was enclosed, from the very surface of her skin to the bones beneath. He could be a step behind her, but really he was all around her. And his breathing was so magnified, she could estimate the exact number of particles he would have inhaled or exhaled with every breath.

Esme had been repairing one of the lamps in the sitting room that Sunday morning when she heard Carlisle watching her from the doorway. He was not trying to be particularly discreet, or else he might have taken more care to quiet his breathing. He knew that _she _knew that he was looking on, but he was just an innocent bystander by all assumptions that went unspoken between them.

His watching her every move had proved a monumental distraction, and before she could control the accident, Esme's brief slip in strength sent the broken light bulb popping out of her hand. She gave a tiny squeak as it narrowly missed Carlisle's head – he had lifted his hand just in time to stop it from shattering against the wall.

Thank goodness he'd been there.

Esme gasped in relief at his swift catch. "And here I thought the days of underestimating my strength were long gone."

He chuckled breezily, looking down to appraise the old bulb in his hand. "What would you have me do with this, then?"

"Oh, toss it," she said with a brief glance over her shoulder. "Edward bought a new box yesterday."

For some reason, Esme found it a challenge to contain her smile at the faint sound of the bulb being dropped into the wastebasket on his way over to her. Something about Carlisle fulfilling the perfectly domestic request had momentarily placed them in somewhat spousal roles, which she shamelessly savored.

Being sure to handle the new bulb more carefully despite her sudden giddiness, she began to twist it into place under the crystal lamp shade. Folding his newspaper, Carlisle crossed his arms with a heavy sigh and stood casually beside her to watch.

"Now why do you insist on repairing the lamps in here when we never use them?"

Esme smiled to herself, having anticipated that would be the very first question he would ask her. Likewise, she had well prepared her answer. "The very reason we never use them is _because _they've never had proper bulbs in them in the first place!"

Carlisle's lips quirked in amusement as he sighed again, saying in a quiet voice, "You see, this is why I prefer candles – they require far less maintenance."

Esme arched her eyebrows and looked up to counter him. "Yes, but what happens when they melt?"

He shrugged nonchalantly. "I cry for a few days, then I have them replaced."

Her laughter sparkled at his humorous comment, and his forced pout helplessly broke into a smile.

"You and your candles..." She shook her head absently, bending down to make the final adjustments on the lampshade.

"You and your electric lamps," he retorted darkly.

"Look," she giggled, gently patting his hand as she turned on the newer, brighter light. "See how lovely that is?"

He cocked his head in consideration, taking in the sparkling facets of the crystal lamp. "I suppose it isn't so detestable."

"Detestable?" she repeated in offense. "I doubt anyone in this world has such strong sentiments about electric lighting as you do, Doctor Cullen."

"It's a point of pride," he said, his voice deeper and far more Edward-like.

"Is it now?" She gave him a suspicious look. "I happen to know you have at least one electric lamp in your study. How do you explain that misfortune?" she asked with a teasing grin.

He seemed reluctantly impressed with her observation. "That stained glass lamp? It was a gift from a newly ordained deacon I'd met while meandering through Illinois," he said casually. "I collected many valuables while near Chicago – Edward being one of them." He smirked lovingly as he mentioned his son.

Edward's muffled snort of acknowledgment could easily be heard from down the hall.

It was too late to change the subject now; Esme's interest had already been captivated.

"Where are these other valuables?" she asked mildly.

As she should have expected, Carlisle could never only _tell _her – he would have to _show _her as well. With a significant tilt of his head toward the hall, he led her out into the tearoom adjoining the parlor and slid open the top doors of the China cabinet.

"Most I've given up to charity by now...but this one I couldn't bear to give away."

He turned around to face her, and in his hands he held up what looked to be a miniature model of a elaborate Victorian house. It was slightly smaller in size than his chest, and was cut open to reveal half of the rooms inside. As he placed it carefully down on the tea table, she could see every tiny piece of carved furniture inside and every painstaking detail painted on its façade. It was painted white with pale blue shutters and tiny midnight blue shingles on its roof. Each window had a flowerbox filled with tiny fabric daffodils.

Inside the three-story house were several open rooms filled with elaborate furnishings no bigger than the size of her thumb. The kitchen had its own baking oven and a table and chairs; the bedroom had its own tiny iron bed with a patchwork quilt on its mattress, and in the washroom there was a small white bathtub filled with glass beads to look like bubbles. There was even a tiny upright piano in the parlor.

"It's exquisite, Carlisle," she remarked breathlessly. "Who made this for you?"

"No one. I bought it from an antique shop in Chicago," he explained with a reminiscent gleam in his eye. "It was around the time when I'd decided I needed to be less conspicuous. I'd been living in fine houses all during my past travels, but my home in Chicago was unbearably dull compared to those I had previously lived in." He smirked and patted the roof of the little house. "So you see, I purchased myself a luxurious home as well – just not one I could fit inside."

She giggled appreciatively as her fingers inched suggestively closer to the house. "May I?"

Even though he had just witnessed her nearly break a light bulb with the extent of her strength, Carlisle nodded his permission without a second of thought, pulling out a chair for her to sit at the table.

Her fingers first felt the intricately embroidered Persian rug on the parlor floor, then the itty bitty lace curtains hanging in the windows, then the shelf full of glassware in the dining room. "Oh, it's so beautiful – look how tiny they are!" she exclaimed, picking up one of the miniature wine stems. With a smirk, she pointed to the small golden chandelier hanging from the dining room ceiling. "And look, it even has electric lighting."

Carlisle chuckled good-naturedly from behind her. "I knew you'd like it."

Esme bent in closer, too busy exploring the enchanting details of the miniature rooms to notice the haze of fondness in his voice when he spoke.

"The fireplace even opens up!" she practically squealed in delight, prodding at the tiny wooden logs that had been piled by the hearth.

"Well, I'm very glad I never gave this away..." he said softly, his voice now disconcertingly close to her shoulder.

Her head turned to find him smiling down at her, something in his eyes she could not place.

"Why would you ever dream of giving something so precious away?" she asked as if it were the most unthinkable offense one could commit.

His eyebrows furrowed sadly as he gracefully lowered himself to crouch beside her chair, careful to steady himself at her eye level. His somber gaze studied the small house before them while he explained quietly, "I never _wanted_ to give it away...but it sometimes made me sad to look at it." He cocked his head and gingerly slid one finger down the thin wooden staircase banister. "There was a time when I wondered if I would ever truly have a place I could call home. And I never did..." He looked over at her pointedly, a blaze of great golden significance in his eyes, "...until I found others to share it with."

Esme quickly found that her responsive smile could not be helped, but it did not feel awkward or forced or silly at all. It felt genuine and warm, and infinitely gracious. Carlisle smiled back at her, with his lovely white teeth glinting like pearls between his plush pink lips.

The sudden, fleeting desire to kiss him was abrupt but strong enough to leave Esme quite flustered. She desperately denied her eyes the sight of his dazzling expression, her gaze landing back inside the house where her hand still rested on the kitchen floor, and his in the sitting room.

Her body tensed in a most pleasant way when she felt his arm come to rest on the back of her chair.

"May I ask you something, Esme?"

Her chest tightened in anticipation, sensing it would likely be something personal from the slightly throaty tone of his voice. But before she could make herself wary, she had already uttered, "Of course."

"A few days ago when I found you out in the garden, you said something that – well, if I'm being perfectly honest, it _moved _me..." He shifted his arm on her chair and she straightened up, waiting with bated breath for him to finish. "You told me you hadn't expected me to return to the house so early, but you didn't call it 'the house'...you called it _home._"

His eyes glistened to emphasize the last word, and he looked so immaculately elated at the prospect, she simply had to confirm it for him.

"I... I suppose I do consider this house to be my home." The realization for her was so smooth, having been there all along. This was the only home she had known, the only one she could remember.

Carlisle smiled softly at her with quiet radiance. "It could not please me more that you feel this way, Esme," he said, staring deeply into her eyes. "But you must understand that this is not a permanent residence. One day, perhaps sooner than we expect, it will be necessary that we move away..."

"I understand," Esme whispered sadly, reaching inside the dining room to take one of the tiny wooden chairs in her hand. She examined it with gentle fingers and forlorn sighs.

"I've moved from place to place for many years now; it isn't as terrible as it sounds, truly," Carlisle offered in an encouraging voice.

"I will miss this house, though," she confessed with a long gaze around the room. "No matter where we go, I have a feeling it will always be home to me."

"Who knows? Maybe one day we'll be lucky enough to find a house exactly like _this_ one to live in," he predicted with a fond tap of his finger on the dollhouse's small chimney.

She smiled gratefully at his efforts to cheer her up, and carefully set the tiny dining chair back in its place at the head of the table.

"You should put it away now," she suggested quietly. "You don't want it to gather dust."

Instead of carrying the little house back to its cabinet like he should have, he stayed right where he was – so close that his arm was touching her shoulders, his dimples poking mercilessly at his cheeks. "We're gathering dust, too. Should we lock ourselves away in the cupboard as well?"

Esme's mouth clamped shut before she could confess her thoughts that this proposal was _not _entirely unfavorable.

His lips spread into a teasing grin as he shook his head and rose to his feet to fulfill her insincere request. She watched as he carried the house back to the cabinet with care and closed it up inside.

"Well, you know where it is if you ever want to see it," he told her with a succinct tap of his knuckles on the cabinet door. His eyes glittered knowingly as slid his arms into his sweater and disappeared into his study.

Since then, Esme had only dared to peek inside that cupboard two times – both had been when Carlisle was out working. It wasn't that she was embarrassed to be caught looking at it over and over again, but that it seemed to imply some level of desperation on her part. Carlisle seemed to own everything in this world that could have efficiently enchanted her, and still he hardly realized it.

He was impossibly busy these days, and Esme had to find other ways to keep herself occupied. She spent both nights and days in the ballroom, painting the walls, and she was slower than she ever had been before. Nothing seemed to satisfy her. She was suddenly that temperamental diva of an artist who could never be content with any conditions. The day was too bright, and the night was too dark. The dust was too distracting, and the air was too muggy.

An interesting pattern had emerged in Esme's feelings regarding the night and day. Not surprisingly, it was precisely correlative to whether Carlisle took the night shift or the day shift at the hospital. Lately he had been taking both.

He went to the hospital during the day. He went to Annaliese's house overnight.

Esme used to love those twelve hours of exquisite darkness with all her heart because they meant Carlisle was home with her. Now she hated them.

There really was nothing pleasant at all about the night.

It was too dark, too long, too lonely. Like the world had decided, "_Enough time for_ you_ in the light..."_ and it sent a punishment to those on one side of the earth while the other half welcomed the sun. The night was oppressive for the mind and spirit. In the absence of light there was only madness, turmoil, fear. Some might call it peaceful, but was not the early morning a time of tranquility as well? Darkness was a cage that the sun set free; a single ray of light was the key.

Esme knew where the sun's first morning rays would shine, and she went there to watch them nearly every morning. The time it rose changed by a minuscule margin as the season dragged on, but she kept on spot with her calculations.

The watery gleam of an infant dawn sung silent songs in her bedroom mirror as Esme studied her own gaze, the tip of her nose sometimes touching the glass.

Carlisle thought her eyes looked like the sunset. So when Esme looked at her own eyes, this was now all she saw. Even while the opposite was preparing to peek over the horizon, she could only see the orange and scarlet blend of brilliance he had deemed her gaze to be. What a battered soul this man must have possessed to see beauty in such a soiled place.

Battered or not, his soul was _her _sun.

Here it came now...

It was just a sliver on the glass of her bedroom window. Just a single liquid line of dull pink light. She traced it with her finger and it resurrected in the dust where her shadow swept it up. Her fingertip sparkled shyly where the sun touched it, and she picked out the individual facets in her dove-white skin. Citrine capped with dazzling violet stars, specks of silver, and a glow of brightest rose. She rotated her finger slowly in the light and watched the colors spark and change, as fascinated as she had been the first day.

She let her fingers fall like feathers down to her side and waited by the light for him to return. It would not be long now. Her ears tingled with the sound of his car on the rough dirt road leading through the forest to their house. His footsteps were seconds from gracing the cobblestone path of the promenade, and soon the sentimental squeal of the front door's hinges would alert her to his entry.

He had to come home eventually, and eventually he did.

It was out of loyalty to the front door, she imagined. That door expected his hand to reach out firmly for its handle come morning, and it would welcome him into his home with a familiar, loving squeak of its hinges. No one had ever taken the time to oil that door properly – probably because that squeak it made was, funnily enough, a pleasant sound to hear. For Carlisle, it was the sound of coming home; for Esme and Edward it was the sound of Carlisle coming home _to them._

The windows still dripped with tears of joy, leftover from the night's storm as he walked inside and wiped the soles of his shoes on the doormat. Esme watched the glass behind him, knowing it must have been crying both out of relief that the night was finally over, and that the doctor had finally returned. She might have cried to herself for these very reasons had she still been able to.

Carlisle saw her right away, but the look he sent her was not grateful, or teasing, or even relieved. He looked exhausted, distressed, but most of all _sad. _

This had been the very reason she had not wanted him to leave the house last night in the first place. She had been afraid that he would find nothing but dark worries in the world, and clearly those worries had attached themselves to him, infected him with their clever teeth and nagging tongues. She was tempted to call Carlisle a "_poor child" _herself.

Because that was truly what he looked like.

His shoulders hung low with an invisible weight as he carelessly tugged off his coat and scarf to hide them inside the closet.

He had not said a word since he'd entered, and Esme worried for an irrational moment that she had done something to anger him. It was so unlike him to be so silent, so cold to her.

She was almost numb, waiting for him to say words that never came. Did he expect her to speak first instead? Should she speak at all?

Without thinking, she blurted breathlessly, "What's wrong?"

The question was idle instinct; it could not be helped. Whenever she saw that sweet furrow between his eyebrows, and that darling pout upon his lips, she sensed that he was bothered by something. And the only way to destroy the very thing that bothered him was to ask him what it was so that she could find it and crush it between her deceivingly strong hands.

Carlisle sighed heavily, his breath almost catching in his throat as he pressed his hands to the closet door in closing it. "It's Annaliese..." he whispered solemnly. "She isn't recovering."

Esme should have known this would be the one thing to keep him away for so long. He was fiercely loyal to this one patient. It was almost suspicious. Had he known this Annaliese before, as he had with Esme? Was he close with the girl's parents? Did they have some sort of agreement? Esme sought a way to explain it somehow, but she did not have enough information to fit the pieces together.

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that," she remarked carefully, then quickly changed the subject. "Was the rain very bad last night?"

"Inconvenient. That's all." At least he had given her a smile while he said it, albeit a weak one. "A nuisance."

She smiled eagerly back, but his eyes did not brighten.

He was locked to the downward spiral. That sick young girl had him hooked.

Esme had thought it could only get better from that day onward. It didn't.

This Annaliese character, she had to go.

Every other word out of Carlisle's mouth was about that God-forsaken child and her problems – how much she _needed _him, how _awful _she had looked the other morning.

It was making Esme very, very upset.

She was convinced that Carlisle wanted to be with the girl more than he wanted to be at home. He was at the hospital enough as it was.

It had been a great challenge getting the doctor to divulge any information on the girl at first. He was reluctant to talk about her, secretive. He was secretive about all of his patients. But Esme was able to extract several deliciously annoying details about this Annaliese, few compliments of Edward when he was willing to participate in her sad little scheme.

This is what became of a lovesick woman with nothing to do.

Annaliese Harkhurst was sixteen years old, a fact that especially disturbed Esme, having been sixteen herself when the doctor first treated her. Annaliese was blonde, fair-skinned, and thin-framed, as Edward had described her. She had been diagnosed with pneumonia by Carlisle not two months ago, and her chances for full recovery were, as he quoted, "dismal."

The poor girl's lungs would never be the same since the virus had taken her. It was admittedly no shock that Annaliese desired Carlisle's presence while feeling so weak and sickly, but it was quickly becoming ridiculous, especially when she began requesting his visits in the middle of the night.

Esme did not mean to sound greedy, but she liked having Carlisle around, too.

Having to lie around the house on those nights when he was away and imagine him holding the young woman's hand and whispering soothing words by her bedside was unbelievably infuriating. Esme imprisoned herself between the thick blue drapes of her bed and made a mockery of a perfectly fine evening, neglecting her thirst in favor of stroking the precisely carved punctures of the doctor's teeth on the side of her neck. It still stung in the most satisfying way when she prodded the raised flesh.

Sometimes, she would hold up that little hand-held mirror with the crack in its glass to better study the scars through the reflection. The marks on her neck were dainty and small, and it thrilled her that they matched the very shape of his sweet mouth so perfectly. One could easily tell the single bite had belonged to him. The site became so familiar, she knew every subtlety in crease and color she could ever hope to memorize. But she never lost fascination with them.

The habit had grown addicting. Sometimes she would find herself feeling to make sure those scars were still there; that she was still, in some way, Carlisle's property. Having his mark on her person was as sweet a justification as she could ask for.

But with such thoughts it was nearly inevitable that her fantasies take flight. Esme had spent too long whipping at those baser temptations like they were a nagging swarm of wasps around her head. It was only a matter of time before she took to imagining the ways that his lips might have framed hers, only natural that she might wonder what he tasted like, if his taste was as exhilarating as his scent...

What kept her from entertaining the visions so liberally before was now gone forever, replaced by a welcoming hostess who buttered up her guests with flirtatious eyes and a provocative smile. And why should it be so sinful to think of him this way? Why should she restrict herself from the fleetingly fabricated pleasure that fluttered through her chest as she conjured his kiss between the left and right sides of her brain – equal parts reason and...creativity?

She surmised it was perfectly acceptable to imagine. After all, she would never have the chance to experience such things for herself. The doctor's tender lips would remain forever secured in the taunting embrace of barbed wire, a mental barricade she must impose on his more tantalizing features for his own safety. For _her _own safety.

These daydreams allowed her to pass through the thorny fortification she had erected during the day, and at night she was free to roam and play inside stone walls without being plagued by that inky guilt that sucked her down the drain. In this darkness, she allowed her head to be tilted carefully back between his hands, permitted his fingers to trace sensually along the curve of her mouth, submitted to the gentle ministrations of his yielding lips as they rested upon and within her own.

It was twice as enticing to build such fantasies in the lush territory of a vampire's mind. The senses and memories were abundant to their very finest details – every fleck in his eyes, every rise and wilt of the exquisite tonality in his voice was stirring almost to the point of being real. Humanity failed magnificently when compared to the castle-sized catalogue of inspirational items available to an immortal's immaculate psyche. It was dangerous to wander the wilderness of her subconscious, just as it might have been wandering outside when blood was in the air. But this danger was only a threat to her emotional sanity, and Esme was willing to sacrifice that.

It made the nights more bearable, and even more agonizing.

The nights passed quietly when Carlisle was gone. No busied pacing could be heard beneath her bedroom where the soles of his feet had methodically caressed the floorboards. He was always so worried about Annaliese, and Esme accidentally damned the girl in her mind several times because of it. It still would have been so delightful to listen to the lulling little rhythm of steps and sighs and stress coming from his study in the middle of the night. Esme was selfish this way, always wishing for what was not in her pocket or pillowcase.

Perhaps she should have taken those quiet nights to instead pray for the recovery of the poor child…

_Poor child._

_Poor child._

Why, the words sounded so very familiar…

Her brain burned with the memory, and suddenly his dream-like tenor was sighing the very words in her head, the first two words she had ever heard him utter – clear, resound pealing – the sound of no biased visage. Just a bare voice, with no face to its origin, no lips to envision pressing the words into audible harmony. In that precious piece of her past, he had not known her name or her face either. His first instinct had been to name her _a child. _A poor child.

How glorious it was to remember this! It was almost inconceivable that she could have ever forgotten such a distinct bell from heaven's tower. His voice was exactly the same as it had been then, only more wonderful with ears to hear it properly.

For hours Esme tried to piece together anything more she could recover, but she was unsuccessful. It seemed the best moments were the ones when she was least expecting it. Trying too hard for something never seemed to work, and it only made her feel more greedy.

Greed was something she was feeling a lot of lately.

It was not only for Carlisle's company, or company of any kind. Esme wanted blood. Not the blood she had already tasted – she wanted a new kind of blood. A more satisfying bouquet was out there, and she caught its song in dead of night occasionally. She wanted strange blood, exotic blood, the blood of extinct and endangered animals, the blood of undiscovered species, the blood of men. Women. Children. Babies.

She could not think of young rosy flesh without her venom rolling like sap down the sleek tunnel of her throat, her teeth drawn to ready points, like poison pincers against her tongue. It was all she wanted, and the correlation to these sinful fancies was plain. In Carlisle's absence, she was made a menace to her own morality.

When Carlisle was here, she did not think about the blood. Not every moment, at least. She was pleasantly distracted. He was so disgracefully good that she could not bear a bad thought while he looked at her. But she could not be so lucky when he was always with that monstrous pair of bedridden lungs.

Esme hated Annaliese. She hated a sickly teenage girl whom she had never met before, simply because Carlisle shared his concern for her well-being. His care was worth grand weight in gold, and Esme would not give it up so easily. Because when she imagined living the whole of eternity like this, incarcerated in some mansion while he went about cooing and coddling every young girl with a tickle in her throat, she was sure she would go out of her mind. It just hurt her too much to be parted from him.

What made this one girl so special to him? Why was he so overwrought with agony every time he came back from visiting her, confessing to Edward how he had wished to stay with her longer if not for keeping up the charade of needing sleep? Esme had seen Carlisle speak about Annaliese, and she was not blind to the exquisite despair that colored his beautiful features when he mentioned his feeble hopes for her recovery. Esme knew that if he could, Carlisle would have had tears in those pretty amber eyes. When she was close to him, she knew that those soft, shy crackles she heard were the sounds of his heart breaking inside his chest.

She wished he would just stop it already – stop all of the helpless sighing, and the pushing of fingers through blond waves, and the sulking by the fireplace where he made himself look ferociously handsome in his sorrow. She wanted to stop imagining his immaculate hands feeling for fever on a fair female forehead. His seraphic face, tilted with sympathy as he watched over the child with unbreakable golden attention. His tender fingers, slipping the mercuric thermometer between her dry little lips. His stethoscope, no longer idle around his neck, but put to use as he placed the cold metal circle to her frail breast with explicit care. Esme wanted to be rid of those images.

Some part of her was distinctly disappointed that, as a vampire, she could no longer fall ill. Her body was immune to all of those delicious little viruses that could have rendered her helpless under his doctorly attentions.

She was jealous of Annaliese, yes. But even more than that, she was jealous of the girl's ability to _contract pneumonia_. In her madness Esme had even go so far as to research the illness in her library, thirsty for any details that might have clued her into what Carlisle _did _there all night. Shortness of breath, profuse coughing, fatigue, fever, general weakness, fast heartbeat, nausea and chills were the finer points. What had these even felt like? She had long forgotten, but she supposed they must have been rather wonderful if they earned hourly doctor visits. It sounded so irrationally _glamorous _when she thought of it on superficial terms. To have Carlisle Cullen perform the Laying on of Hands daily would have been divine enough for any woman to feign even the most unpleasant of symptoms.

And Annaliese could have very well been pretending; her clinginess was suspicious to that. Esme imagined the blonde little imp was a very practiced actress. She probably sat too close to the fire before he arrived, warming up her false little fever for him to feel with his icy fingers. She would curl up under the sheets with herbal tea and induce tremors in her body once he was by her side. Having malnourished herself purposefully for the past few months, it would be simple enough to fabricate weakness for the doctor's assessment.

It was unfair for Esme to judge the girl, who could have just as easily been closer to death every day. But she could not help herself. She just felt the need to _savor_ this envy, this misplaced animosity. A vampire's emotions were particularly tender during the first year or so, after all. But this was her excuse for _everything. _

Esme knew every time the cheery ring of the telephone pierced an otherwise peaceful midnight, it would mean Carlisle leaving for another five hours at a time, only to come back to his home in a lingering depression. She was sick of the pattern. She wanted a change.

It was probably more the guilt than anything which led her to do it, but there had seemed no better choice at the time she made the decision to console him. She could combat her jealousy with sympathy. If she only pretended to be concerned for the girl as well, she could find some comfort in the situation, and if she could comfort_ him_… that would have made it worth everything.

No matter how lovely he looked with that furrowed crease in his brow, she always longed to sweep it away with a kiss. And she came so dangerously close to doing just that when she walked in on him one early morning, lamenting in Edward's music room alone after a particularly long visit to Annaliese's house.

_Particularly long_ was an understatement. He had been gone all night.

He was standing by the window, his body solid and sorrowful, set in a striking silhouette before the gloomy blue glass. His blond hair was a magnificent mess, calm curls resting against the back of his neck like one of Raphael's angels. She felt a strong spindle of pain while staring at him, wanting so badly to touch him... but her hands were bound by phantom ropes behind her back.

"How is she coming along?" Esme pried gently, genuine ruefulness inflicting her tone. It echoed back at her in the stillness of the room, and she could almost hear the more delicate strings of the piano trembling with the waves of her voice.

Carlisle's eyes lifted slowly as he turned his head to face her, and Esme had never seen them so glazed and devoid of hope before. She could see his silent hopes for her to read his mind so that he would not be forced to speak the words aloud. But by the time her mind dared to challenge the possibility, his lips had already opened.

"She is gone," he whispered and bowed his head, his chin nearly touching his collar.

This news should have made Esme feel many things, but not a sordid mixture of devastation and pure glee, which were the first antagonistic emotions she felt, dueling in the sunken void of her stomach.

"Carlisle," she began in a broken voice, "I'm so very sorry..."

She inched carefully closer to where he stood by the window, hoping to come away with _some _sort of contact. It was a bit like trying to approach a delicate bird that might fly off if it was startled. She could only come so close before scaring it away.

Carlisle turned away from Esme's suggested advance, and the swift gesture stung her deeply. "Please..."

Oh, the agony she felt just in that one tiny word, uttered in his breathless voice. It positively shredded her heart. An unbearable heat flushed over her entire body just as quickly, leaving her frozen in a film of ice – unable to move, unable to see.

Finally, the guilt flooded in. After so many nights spent plotting against this faceless young girl, the self-gratifying suspicions that Annaliese was faking a life-threatening condition for attention... It all came screaming back at Esme's conscience, reminding her that here and now, Carlisle was in mourning over this poor soul. He was too shy to sob in front of her, and Esme was too shocked to react.

She took just one step backwards, about to abandon him to his grief when he suddenly took in a deep breath, lifted his head to the window and spoke in a hushed voice, "I nearly did it, Esme." He blinked over blank eyes, terrified as he stared at nothing. "I nearly did it again."

Esme clutched her heart, at once aware of his meaning. He _had _wanted to change Annaliese. Somehow, it seemed, Esme had known of the threat all along.

"She was lying there, God help me, and her mother was weeping in the next room... and I..." His jaw tightened with a harshness Esme had never seen before, and it frightened her. "I was thinking of Edward..." he whispered almost shamefully, "And...how Annaliese could have been for him..."

Esme gasped softly as the door to the music room was suddenly thrown open. Edward stood there, eyes blazing, the Titian-perfection of his young face enhanced in the ominous greenish light from the windows.

"Carlisle, stop," he hissed in warning, absently gravitating towards the piano. His lean fingers clasped the gleaming black surface as he struggled to catch his father's eye. "It is not up to you to decide who is _for _me, or not. Do you understand?"

Carlisle's eyelids squeezed shut as though reigning in tears. He did not answer.

The dark pits of Edward's eyes expanded threateningly. "That is not true, and you know it."

Esme bit her lip in confusion and backed away slightly, trying to decipher the missing pieces of a one-way silent conversation.

Carlisle's shoulders fell as if a heavy weight had been placed upon them, and he again turned away from his interrogator, a look of graceful defiance on his noble profile.

Edward seethed for a few moments, and Esme feared his grip would have broken his precious piano had he held it any longer. His awareness was brought about by her thoughts, and he sharply backed away as if the instrument had been made of hot metal. He took several calming breaths, pacing in a self-possessive little circle before he scoffed and snatched the door handle, pulling it loose but thankfully not breaking it.

Edward stood in the threshold for one last look at the man in the window. "Just so you are aware, I never considered my future to be _your _responsibility_." _

The door did not have its intended effect when he slammed it shut. In fact, it barely made a sound. It was so loud that it was quiet, and the silence that he had left in his wake was commendably awkward.

Carlisle's shoulders began to tremble, and strange sounds like soft laughter came from where he stood, but Esme knew he could not have been laughing at a time like this. The discomfort and disbelief she felt at seeing Carlisle cry was more surreal than anything she could imagine.

He looked so _helpless _there, the solidity of his frame seeming to surrender to the misty window behind it. He was blanketed by blue, but still he glowed beneath it. His head lolled in tiny motions, one direction then the other, as if it were an effort to keep his neck upright. She wondered if he were looking out at the oppressive fog before him, or if his eyes were shut to the rest of the world, hoping to be lost in his own land of sorrow.

Esme expected an intense sadness to overwhelm her at the sight, but she was too shocked to share in his grief. For a few minutes she simply stood, shaking slightly, rooted to her place.

But as the tension in his aura grew stronger, Carlisle looked even weaker. His glow slowly washed away before her eyes, and Esme feared he would disappear completely if she did not bring him back with a word, or better yet...a touch.

A willing strength powered her heart at long last, and Esme found herself at his side before she could take the first step.

Without any regard, the tips of her fingers reached out and settled on the crook of his elbow, clinging tentatively to his sleeve as his shaking slowly melted away. Too scared to alter her hold in any way, she remained there, not quite oblivious to his moving gaze as it landed on her hand where she touched him.

His gaze felt warm on her fingers, but she still did not move them. She held him, and he let her hold him, and this was all right...this was needed.

They needed each other.

But that need knew no gratification from the sharp slam of the front door that suddenly filled the house, and the sounds of impossibly fast footsteps heading in the direction of the backyard lake.

A darkly whispered _"Edward holds grudges" _was all she needed to hear. Her fingers tightened around Carlisle's elbow as he breathed steadily, turning to face her. He met her eyes, and she stared up at him without blinking, opening her gaze in a welcoming whirlpool of whispered words.

_"I am here for you." _

_"You are not in this alone." _

_"The sorrow will pass." _

_"Tomorrow is a new day."_

She believed he could hear these promises she offered...or at least he could see them, swirling unspoken behind her eyes. Carlisle was sensitive to these silent passings, both spiritual and simple.

And when he laid his hand over hers, she could feel her promises sinking into the cold flesh of his palm. He felt so soft, so yielding, so very in need of her. He was so perfect when he was in need.

He was indeed beautiful when he was giving, but he was _exquisite_ when he was receiving.

His eyes closed, shoulders sunk, and his face was caressed into a peaceful slumber by the rainy reflections of the window. Esme breathed with ease, knowing that he had found comfort in what simple gesture of sympathy she was able to offer.

Finally, she was able to offer something of herself to _him. _

It was ironic, really – this tiny but thrilling baby step toward consolation in a time of sorrow, granting her the chance to give back what Carlisle would have relentlessly given to _her. _

Only then did Esme finally understand, she did not owe this most crucial step forward to her own courage, but to an innocent sixteen-year-old girl who had come down with a case of pneumonia.

* * *

_**A/N: **__I have written a chapter for __**Behind Stained Glass**__ that reveals what went on with Carlisle during his long treatment of Annaliese. _**If you don't read any other chapter in the companion story, at least read this one! **_I would consider it the most important, and the most insightful of all of the outtakes so far. Plus, it again looks into Carlisle's mind instead of Esme's for a change. This chapter has been posted as "Chapter 7: Annaliese."_


	26. Watch Her Wilt

**Chapter 26:**

**Watch Her Wilt**

* * *

Carlisle sat outside in the rain.

Esme didn't know why he did it. He could have watched it from the window where he could stay safe and dry. But he had to be a part of it. He had to let it cleanse him with its cold, pelting embrace.

He'd said nothing to warn her, just slowly pulled his sweater off his arms and slipped silently out the back door. She thought he was going after Edward.

But he would never leave her.

He sunk to the steps on the porch, and his head fell into his hands.

She was right. He did look like an angel dunked in holy water.

Esme watched him from the window with her hands pressed to the glass, her fingers secretly stroking the outline of his body – the deep gold curls wilting around his head, the soaked span of his shoulders, the rivulets weeping down his back. She could almost feel his tremors as the tips of her fingers passed over his limbs, could almost feel the wet, clinging white fabric that hugged his body. She pretended to touch him from afar, tracing his rainy blue and grey-gold figure over and over until her fingers ached too much to move.

But her fingers, as much as they ached from moving, still ached _to move. _

She needed canvas.

She had to _paint _him.

Esme's frantic rush took her to the library, rummaging through every case of paint in search of blue. Any shade would do. And yet she found none.

She stood back, her hands falling from the stack of open cases, only the empty beat of her breath to match the steady rain-filled silence.

Every one of her best blue pigments had gone missing.

In a panic, she searched the floor beneath the console, the drawers, the shelves, under the couch cushions. Her teeth were chattering and her hands were shaking, like an addict in search for her stash. She was absolutely sick to her stomach; she could have cried.

They were gone.

The problem with investigating such a mystery lay in that there were only two other occupants to call into suspicion. While she doubted either Carlisle or Edward would have gone rummaging through her library in a desperate search for blue paints, Esme had to wonder why all of her possessions were slowly disappearing before her eyes. As far as she knew, she was the only "gatherer" in the family, and the only one who cared to tidy up everything in her path. It just didn't make sense that someone with a perfect memory could manage to lose things she used on an almost daily basis.

This house just _had _to be haunted.

Either that or she was losing it. Steadily, slowly losing her sanity.

Perhaps Edward was right. The latter was far more probable.

After having ransacked her own library, Esme abandoned the room to resume her silent vigil at the back door. The temptation to rush out into the rain and throw her arms around Carlisle from behind was so stirring that she nearly broke the door handle as she considered it.

She could smell the tragic tenderness of his scent, clawing through the glass and wood to swell inside her lungs. The rain made his scent so much more fertile, straining it to its most intoxicating lushness. The soft pine pricked at her, the sweet peppermint played with her, the warm incense inebriated her.

The flame of this candle was one the rain could not wash away.

She retreated to her bedroom when she'd had her fill of his exquisite sorrow and she could no longer bear to watch him. He did not come back inside until the last drop of rain left the clouds. She was sorry she had not been there to see him when he entered, thoroughly sodden.

They did not talk for the rest of the day. But it was an understood silence, a necessary silence. A chance for each of them to regain their footing after all that had happened in such a short while.

Edward came home late that night. Esme saw his familiar shadow, sneaking through the cellar doors from her bedroom window. She thought Carlisle would run to him immediately and maybe chastise him for a while, but he didn't.

Edward and Carlisle were somewhat cold to each other following the incident involving Annaliese Harkhurst. Their schedule resumed like a slow steam engine, starting up again after having all its coal burned through. The tracks were rusty, thanks to all of the rain.

Esme hated to watch by the wayside with no means of influence. She didn't dare take one side over the other; although in her heart she wanted to side with Carlisle, she still felt that Edward's logic was more sound. After all, Carlisle had nearly made another vampire. The idea still did not sit well with Esme.

It was a little bit painful for her to have to share Edward's cold shoulder against Carlisle, but her loyalty to Edward was just as important to her; not to mention it would have been far more difficult to rectify her relationship with Edward if he should find that she was not behind him. But being distant with Carlisle, even more than she normally would have been, was harmful to the slowly twining bonds of their relationship.

She tried to remind herself that it was normal for members of a common household to have these kinds of fallouts. Not every day would be filled with sunshine and understanding and happy conversation. Real households and real families did not work that way. The dynamics of three vampires were especially fragile, but their problems were depressing all the same.

It had been too long since Carlisle called her "Bright Eyes."

Esme was forced to politely turn her face from Carlisle when he entered the room, and oh, how it hurt. She regretted not having taken the news of Annaliese's death as an excuse to pull him into a fiery embrace of sympathy. If he had seemed hesitant to her touch before, she decided now that it would have been only more delicious to have ignored his hesitation. She could have taught him that no touch of comfort offered to him deserved a flinch. He was worthy of affection in his times of deepest distress; he could weep into the shoulder of another when his shoulder was already soaked.

It lit a swaddling warmth in her heart to imagine taking a second chance that morning when she had seen him in the dim, rainy window. She would have swept her arms around his mournful beauty, and soothed the trembling in his weighted shoulders with her small steady hands, and whispered loving condolences into the silk of his hair as she cradled his head against her bosom. She should have sheltered him from the rain.

She could have given him this. She could have seized her chance to be _his _caregiver in _his_ time of need. But she had settled for a watery substitute of that moment, because in the dark cowardly cavern of her belly, her courage was a mile-high pile of firewood without friction.

Her attraction to him had not waned in the slightest; it instead grew a little bit more devious behind her back. Where she had once admired his beauty without qualms, she was now terrorized by outrage at herself every time she allowed her eyes to linger a bit longer than was appropriate.

How had the shame ever escaped her before? How had she possessed the gall to not even blink when he stretched his arms or bent at the waist? Now every space of skin he left bare was a sinful little platter for her eyes to feast on. The mere sight of his knuckles bending in a grasp sent a heat to her face that surely rivaled that of the Burning Bush. Even the backs of his hands, peeking out from the cuffs of his sleeves emblazoned her belly with that crushing ache. But that smooth white space tucked just between the folds of his collar was the worst. The very base of his throat, where just inches below his scars hid safely under the fabric. It was so perfect – the tender, quiet strength of that tiny triangle of skin – it turned her knees to pudding.

She didn't even have to imagine how wonderfully her lips would have fit, right there in that lovely space, or how his breath might have hitched if she'd started to undo the buttons there, one by one...

Esme was magnificently embarrassed by Edward's having to hear her not-so-subtle admirations. It was all the worse when he and Carlisle were not on the best of terms. The last thing Edward would have wanted to hear about was how appealing his father's neck was.

Esme's efforts to redeem herself came in the form of two attentive ears, ready to listen anytime the boy needed to lift the weight of frustration off his chest. Edward was not shy about letting his displeasure shine through. He spoke to Esme about both his confusion and his insecurity when Carlisle was away. During the night, they would lay on separate sofas in the sitting room across from each other, with all of the lights off because it was easier to talk about these things when one didn't have to see the face of the other.

He confessed to her that it felt odd coming to her for solace.

"Before you were around I went to Carlisle for everything – advice, comfort, pointless banter. I had no one else."

She smiled sadly as he revealed this to her, pleased that he had thought her a worthy replacement, but sorry that Carlisle had been distanced from his son as a result.

"Don't be sorry," Edward sighed. "You're much easier to talk to than he is."

Esme's brow furrowed in confusion. She imagined Carlisle _would_ have been very easy to talk to. The only reason it was ever hard for _her _to talk to him was because just looking at him was often enough to buff the edges of her nerves.

"He usedto be more agreeable," Edward explained with a sigh, "but lately his zealous concern for my faith has gotten me a bit irked, along with...other things."

Absently, Esme twirled a lock of her hair around her finger. She understood why Edward might have felt that way, but at the same time she felt worse that Carlisle was unwittingly isolating himself by showing his care in the only way he knew how.

"I can't believe him," Edward muttered into the dark room. "Sometimes... I just don't understand the way his mind works," he gave an odd little chuckle, "which is ironic considering I can hear everything he is thinking."

"He thinks of you as his son," she reminded calmly. "He only wants you to be happy."

"You think Annaliese could have made me happy?" Edward challenged ruefully.

Esme shifted uncomfortably against the cushions. "Well, I don't know her, but I'm sure she could have been...well, a c—"

"A companion?" he whispered.

_Perhaps..._

She could almost hear the strain of a smirk upon his lips as he spoke. "Oh, Esme, if only his intentions were that innocent..."

She turned her head slightly to see the outline of his profile where the moonlight slid across his angled features. "Carlisle did not only consider changing Annaliese to be my _companion_." The silhouette of his gangly fingers reached blindly into the burnished mass of his messy hair. "He thought she could have been my _mate._"

Esme wrinkled her eyes in confusion. "Your _mate_?" she whispered suspiciously. "As in...?"

_A wife?_

Edward sighed, "Yes, vampires use the term to describe an eternal lover. Truly it could be taken as a 'soul mate',though because the existence of our souls is debatable, it stands alone," he added wryly.

She flinched at the derision in his voice.

"But," she tested warily, "we cannot...reproduce."

"No," he confirmed, though she had been wise enough to understand why. "We cannot. But we can still have...a partner."

Her stomach squirmed strangely at the confirmation. Everything that went along with having a lover was still possible, yet vampires could not produce offspring. But that didn't mean they could not commit to a lifelong romantic companion.

"Is it...natural for vampires to marry each other?" she asked softly.

Edward sniffed. "Most don't. But of course it would be utterly irresponsible for them to obtain a legal union, being that they shouldn't exist," he added with a low chuckle. "Not to mention, they would probably kill the priest."

"Then how do they commit to one partner?" She cringed as she finished the thought. "...Or do they?"

She heard the light brushing of fabric as Edward shrugged. "From what Carlisle has told me, it just sort of happens. Once a vampire finds his mate, they're united for as long as they live, no marriage required. And even stranger, they _desire _no other partner for as long as they live."

Esme's heart glowed a little at the idea. It didn't sound terrible at all; certainly not savage like the polygamous lifestyle she had imagined would have been more fitting to a subhuman. In fact the devotion Edward spoke of was more unbreakable than a restless human relationship could ever hope to be.

"So it would be a fairly...powerful moment when two vampires realized they were destined for one another?"

Edward just shook his head with a smile. "You read too many fairy tales, Esme. I doubt it's any more powerful than how it might happen to a pair of humans. The devotion is often realized much later."

"But I still don't understand something," she huffed, scratching her forehead in confusion. "How could Carlisle just _assign _someone to be your lover?"

"Good question!" Edward barked bitterly. "Apparently I've given him the impression that I _desperately _need a woman in my life—"

"Honestly, Edward?" she almost giggled.

"—Or that I'm plagued by some sort of sexual frustration or something... I don't know."

She guessed he was only joking, but the idea made her shudder involuntarily. _Would a thought so presumptuous and indecently intrusive really cross Carlisle's mind? _

Edward's voice deepened as he spoke into the dark. "I know he sells himself as the founder of Quakerism, but he's not exactly clean as crystal." He paused then, and the effect was brutal. "You'd be shocked to hear some of the things he thinks, Esme."

She would have shuddered again, but her body was suddenly far too warm to shiver.

"I'm sorry, that was a bit inappropriate," Edward apologized, but she could hear the slickness of amusement in his voice.

She cursed conservatively in her mind, to which Edward chuckled darkly.

"I'd venture to say Carlisle would be rather shocked to hear many of your thoughts as well, Esme."

Esme blanched, knowing he was not only referring to her choice of cuss words. Earlier that night she had taken to daydreaming more forwardly about the doctor, unaware that her imagination had the propensity to be so disturbingly vivid when she channeled it into certain fantasies. She wondered boldly, for the first time in Edward's presence, what it might have been like to kiss Carlisle with reckless abandon, and not only on his lips...

The humiliation was nothing new to her, but she knew such thoughts were a great bother to Edward, which was truly her only motivation to restrain them at all.

"Edward, I'm terribly embarrassed that you had to witness that. I don't know what came over me," she mumbled quietly.

"You talk about it like it's only a phase, Esme," he said broodingly, a subtle note of warning in his tone, "These thoughts have been going on for a while. Neither of us has to pretend that they haven't."

But she _liked _to pretend that they hadn't.

She groaned softly into her cushion. He just didn't understand.

"I _understand_, Esme. You're infatuated. It's nothing unfamiliar to me."

She nearly snorted. Of course it wasn't anything unfamiliar to him. Edward had every other female under the age of twenty-one and her mother fawning over him every time he dared to walk the streets in town.

_Infatuated…_

The word just sounded so…untidy. Unclear. Love in distress. Love that was not really love, but a synthetic, fabricated, over-embellished love.

Esme did not want this sort of love. But it was difficult to determine whether that was all she felt. It was enough of a mess to be caught in the throes of newborn emotions; she could not have chosen a more inopportune time to fall in love. How was she to know if it really was genuine?

It had seemed so plain at first – pure, even. She had known from the very beginning that she could never breed the desire to touch another man if that man was not Carlisle, and this remained true. But now her thoughts of him were even more dangerous, even more possessive. More thrilling, but more disgraceful.

If her heart was buried within the blood-red soil of some impure infatuation, she was lost with no way out. That soil was fertile, and she was calling rainstorms upon it by imagining herself with Carlisle. Soon the wild germination would blossom wildly in her chest. It was filling her up slowly, one day at a time. Esme would rather be damned than see what would happen if she let herself burst.

"Will it ever go away?" she whispered, her voice like a forlorn flower that bloomed without light.

The breath Edward took was so deep, it changed the dynamics of the air in the room.

"Maybe… I don't know." He didn't sound like he cared very much. Esme could have been angry with him, but it really wasn't any of his concern what she did with her feelings, even if they were targeted as his father. "I have never known this kind of love myself, but I know from the minds of many others that it is often challenging to distinguish _true _feelings from mere infatuation," he finished solemnly.

Esme frowned to herself. Edward made it sound so impersonal, as if he were discussing the conflicting themes of some philosophy essay. So very analytic.

"I thought I loved him, Edward," she mourned from behind her pillow.

"Your emotions are... Well, they're downright _delirious, _Esme," he said forwardly.

She cringed in offense.

"I'm sorry, but I have to be blunt," he amended curtly. "You're very confused. And as long as you're confused, _I _will be confused."

"I'm not _trying _to confuse anyone, Edward," she said, frustrated. "I just as well wish I could end it all."

"That would probably be a good thing." His tone was careful, clearly holding back any unnecessary force. "I mean, you can barely say his_ name_ out loud…"

A delicate sort of flutter filled the empty space in her belly. "I say his name out loud."

"Not without the most..._distressing sensations_, which, if I'm being honest, only concern me more."

She held back a hiss, all of a sudden feeling wildly defensive.

"I can't help the way I feel about him, Edward. I know it isn't right, but I _can't help it. _I can't even understand it."

"Neither can I," he said coolly. "That is what worries me even more."

"Do you think…what I feel for him…it isn't real?" Her timid question was lost in the cotton, but Edward heard it in her mind.

"What do you want me to say to that, Esme?"

She considered his gentle challenge for a long minute. Did she really want this on her shoulders? Would it have been better to have _no_ feelings for Carlisle, rather than feelings that weren't genuine? If she was only suffering from a false, flighty puppy love, one day of realization would arrive and find her flat on her face with shame. So much of her wanted to tell Carlisle everything of what she was feeling – and sometimes she felt that _he _wanted to know all of what she was feeling – but this was something she could never allow to see the light of day.

Did she _want _to love Carlisle?

To answer 'no' would mean she simply wasn't willing to withstand the hardships such a commitment entailed.

To answer 'yes' would be…the truth.

She wanted to love him. She wanted her feelings to be genuine. She wanted to feel what was real for once instead of just some slippery, bittersweet illusion. She was so lost to herself now, at this hazy curtain between real and unreal. Neither her heart nor her soul if they still existed in their true form was speaking to her in a clear enough voice. The communication between feelings was groggy and weak – an emotional laryngitis.

Her gaze found Edward's solemn face between the shadows from across the room. He stared back at her sadly, but his eyes were the brightest black. He would not have known real love with any more familiarity than she would. They were both in the dark.

_I don't want you to say anything, _she told him with silent words.

Her face turned back to the ceiling, and her mind sifted through daring little scenarios, wondering what might become of her if her love was real…if it was reciprocated…

The room was silent for a while, but it was always a comfortable silence when she was only with Edward. Any silence that fell between Esme and the doctor could have gone to either extreme. It was always a gamble, give or take a few awkward glances.

Might it one day be the same for her with Carlisle as it was with Edward? She often wondered, would she and the doctor always be doomed to that sticky pool of awkwardness when they tried to speak to each other? What if, theoretically, one day they were able to surpass that looming discomfort? What if, one day, they were _closer _than she and Edward were?

What if, one day, Carlisle took _her _as his mate…?

Edward interrupted her thoughts with a weighty sigh. "Why does everyone so obsessively seek companionship? I just don't understand it."

"You have a different mindset than most, Edward," Esme reminded gently, relieved to have the focus off of her. "You're very independent."

"Exactly." He sounded a little too proud.

She released a sigh of sympathy. "Ah, I understand. You've survived this long without a mate, so why would Carlisle suddenly feel the need to make you one now?"

There was a tense sort of quiet for a beat.

"That's not really something we haven't spoken about before," he revealed in a low voice.

"You mean Carlisle _has_ talked to you about finding a mate?" She tried not to sound too hopeful. She knew very well their conversations on such matters could have involved her. She was, after all, the only female they had both come into significant contact with for an extended period of time, with the exception of any of the Denali women. It was always a possibility that she had at least been _discussed _in the context she had hoped for.

"It's very complicated, Esme," Edward broke in with a tired exhale. "Something just between Carlisle and me."

"Oh." She suddenly felt disgustingly intrusive for her curiosity. Her head turned to look over at him, bothered by his obvious distress. "Do you think you will ever find someone, Edward?" she asked quietly.

"To marry?" he whispered wonderingly.

She was somewhat surprised he had not responded with bland defense.

A helpless smile crossed her face. "Yes. To marry."

"I don't know."

She sighed irritably. He was never decisive about these things.

_You always say that._

She heard him shrug against the cushions. "Because I really don't know. If I'm being honest, though, I can't envision it at all," he laughed weakly. "You can thank Carlisle for changing me at such a young age."

She frowned sympathetically, for both the father and the son.

"I suppose that's why he was so tempted to change Annaliese," Edward continued, sounding suddenly regretful. "She was still young... She would have made the most compatible match for me."

Esme swallowed thickly around the sad tightening in her throat. "You know he was only thinking of what could make you happy, Edward."

"Isn't he always?" he sighed unaffectedly, though it wasn't truly a question at all.

She smiled ruefully, letting her thoughts do the speaking for her.

The boy heaved a doubtful breath. "Sometimes I get the feeling Carlisle is just waiting for the next patient he can doom to this life," he said gloomily. "Whether his excuse is to find me a mate or to 'save' someone he just couldn't stand to watch die."

"He can't help it," Esme sighed, a bit too adoringly. "That's just the way he works."

"Oh, I know it better than anyone, trust me."

She managed a tentative chuckle.

"You'll make amends with him soon, won't you?" she added hopefully.

"Mmhmm."

"Edward...?"

"It's not as if we aren't speaking at all, Esme," he reminded wearily. "The problem will resolve itself in due time."

"I hope so," she whispered, wringing her hands. "I don't like to see you two so melancholy."

Esme was somewhat pleased that her remark had bestowed a second prolonged silence of drowsy thought upon the room. She remembered the way Carlisle and Edward had looked at each other when they crossed paths that morning. In silent passing of their gazes, it was as if she could see the missed years of bonding they'd put behind themm, all for her sake_. _She hated to feel as if she were the cause for every problem, but sometimes it seemed that way. She often worried that she was the reason they had to make so many sacrifices, that she was disrupting their relationship as father and son.

Edward's deep voice carefully prodded through the quiet. "Esme?"

She heard the tension in the way he said her name, and her eyes opened reluctantly. "Hm?"

Expecting him only to assuage her worries, she was startled to hear the most unexpected words cross the room.

"I spoke to Carlisle about Charles."

Esme couldn't help but recoil in revulsion at the name. A wretched bout of pins and needles plucked between her lungs, and she stiffened as if ready to defend herself. It was ridiculous that she still needed to remind herself that she was in no danger when someone mentioned the name.

"He already knows about Charles," she sighed with effort. "I told him a while ago."

"I told him before you told him," Edward pointed out with an almost childish forcefulness.

She bit her lip. So her suspicions had been correct.

_No wonder... Carlisle had not seemed at all surprised when she told him. _

"Are you angry?" Edward questioned, still like a child in his tentative concern.

_No. _

She thought it, and she meant it. The mind could only give an honest answer.

Edward whispered, "I thought it would be best for both of you if Carlisle didn't need to wait to discover it."

She nodded to herself, aware that he couldn't see her.

"Anyway, we were discussing something the other day, before all of this Annaliese nonsense..."

Esme resisted the urge to groan. Most likely it had been one of their notorious one-way conversations. No matter how vigilant she was, Esme could never seem to piece Edward and Carlisle's half-spoken words together. It always left her in a deeper ditch of confusion than before. They were so clever in keeping things from her.

"What was that?" she asked warily, not certain she wanted to know if it had been a discussion about Charles.

"Don't be frightened, Esme."

It only took his considerate warning to drive her into a silent but hysterical panic.

"We talked about...well...about _taking care of _him."

She froze immediately, like a beautiful sculpture of ice with her hand on her heart.

Even the suggestion that Carlisle had so much as _considered _a murderous revenge as acceptable made her want to vomit. Regardless of this, knowing he had wanted to purge the earth of such a soiled soul was somehow saintly in its sinfulness. Sick though it was, Esme was irrationally _flattered _that Carlisle was capable of entertaining violence at Charles' expense.

But Carlisle having those types of thoughts... It was blasphemous to his character. It was like she had never truly known him – this darker, more shameful part of him he worked so diligently to hide from everyone, including himself.

A miniature maelstrom of pleasure and contention battled in her dormant heart. If possible, the utterly disturbing revelation had only made her love him more. It shouldn't have, but it did.

Edward continued hastily, "Do not mistake me. Carlisle believes only God has the right to bring about the death of the wicked. But I will say that he has not put forth much effort into discouraging _me _from going."

_Going...? _

Esme shot up in her place and fixed him with her stare.

"You will not leave this house, Edward," she commanded in a shockingly icy voice. "I know you think that by hunting him down you would be doing something noble – and maybe you would – but I can't let you go, even in these circumstances."

"A pathetic human like Charles couldn't harm me, Esme," he reminded cautiously, rising to sit upright across from her.

She reflexively winced at the name. "I know. I just don't want you to ever leave," she insisted in a forceful, steady tone.

She thought Edward would argue back, but he only nodded slowly, jaw firm. "Fair enough."

Esme breathed a sigh of relief and reclined against the back of the couch, shaking her head. "Please... We must never talk about him. Please."

Edward's eyes shone like dark, glassy windows of intense regret. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine." She held up a lone, peaceful hand.

"No. It's not. I know it makes you uneasy," he looked down, pressing his fingers to his forehead. "I just thought you should know."

She spared him a significant glance, to which his eyes blackened slightly, then hesitantly relaxed.

With a heavy sigh, Esme stood up, tossing the pillow behind her. "I think I need to clear my head for a while. This was a bit too much for one evening."

Edward politely rose to his feet, but his expression was wary. "You're not going to find much peace. Carlisle is on his way in right now."

Her forehead fell hopelessly into her hands.

This was going to be a long night.

The sound of the front door opening brought Esme to stand on the tips of her toes, leaning over far enough to peer warily into the hall. From here she could make out just his shadow, flickering over the wall. It was fascinating how Carlisle's shadow was so clearly _his. _It was so definitive of his physique; where others' were abstract black and blue phantoms, his was a silhouette of night powder, miming his grace with flair unattainable to any other.

His scent crept through the hall to cast a spell of citrus over her sensitive nose, and it made her head spin softly. She swallowed in anticipation, looking back questioningly to Edward who remained both still and silent on the sofa across from her. There was no reason for them to be so on edge with Carlisle in the house, but it was the delicate conversation which he had unwittingly intruded upon that graced them with such unease.

If just to spare Edward the awkwardness of having to greet his father, Esme flitted to the doorway and waited for Carlisle to pass. He paused mid-stride as he caught her eye, glancing suspiciously over her shoulder. He opened his lips to speak but pressed them together again as he noticed Edward sitting stiffly behind her in the dark room.

"Good evening," Esme chirped, and all hopes to relieve any awkwardness had just been hugely amplified by her unnaturally high pitch.

Carlisle's eyes clamped onto hers at once, looking as confused as could be.

"Good evening..." he trailed uncomfortably, more a question than a greeting. His eyes once again lifted to sweep through the room behind her, as if he thought she was hiding something. "What were you two doing in there?"

Esme realized at once how suspicious it might have been for him to walk in and find them, perfectly silent in a room together, with all of the lights off.

She winced softly, wishing Edward would help her. But the boy was clever enough to keep his mouth shut.

"We were just talking," she murmured, with a significant but brief catch of his eyes.

Before the situation could grow any more unbearable for all of them, Esme gracefully slipped past Carlisle into the hall. Blindly, she walked until she reached the doors that led to the old greenhouse, hoping Edward would forgive her for leaving him behind – she just could not take the pressure any longer. And what if Carlisle _had _heard some bit of their conversation earlier? He could very well have caught the last few details as he approached the house. It made her sick to her stomach to think Carlisle knew more about what was going on behind his back than he let on.

She heaved a sigh at the solemn white moon, resting with its family of stars on the glass ceiling over her head. The night sky was brilliant, like a goddess had spilled her jewelry box on a bed of black velvet. Esme wondered why she did not come in here more often. It was especially beautiful at night.

There were very few plants left from the end of the season; whatever remained were flowerless vines and green shrubbery that was slowly browning. It was chilly in here, with gangly shadows cast by tree branches on the faded green tiles, and the occasional hoot of some night owl chanting to her through the glass.

Esme settled against the wall for a moment to slip her stockings off, smiling weakly at the feel of her bare feet against the cold tile. She let her toes graze the leaves that had fallen on the floor, savoring their grumpy crackles as she stamped them and brushed them aside. She made her way down the three marble steps to pace along the empty menagerie. White iron bird cages with no birds to house made a somewhat depressing decoration for this place. Someday she would have them removed. As far as refurbishing the house went, this greenhouse was definitely the next room on her list.

Whatever nondescript male murmurs she had ignored from before had finally melted away. As much as she hoped their abrupt conversation had not been worsened by her haste in escaping, she could not help but be glad she had missed it. She could do no good by getting caught in the middle of Carlisle and Edward when they were conversing privately.

Esme's lips quirked into a small smile as she noticed there was one last flower, clinging to one of the vines on the lattice. She reached up to pluck it from its place, cradling its cold yellow petals in her hand. She bent slightly to gift herself with whatever perfume it had left to offer before it died... but she was fairly certain that the scent of honeysuckle was nothing close to cinnamon sugar and incense.

The helpless flower dropped from her hand as Esme twirled around with a startled expression, gazing up at Carlisle where he stood at the top of the shallow steps. The moon blatantly highlighted him for her, as if she _needed _to be made aware of his presence; as if she could not see his piercing white face or his gleaming halo of abundant blond hair from where she stood.

He was not smiling, but there was a curious set to his lips that kept them from looking like a frown. She imagined her expression might have been the same.

She whispered the first words that came to mind. "There was one flower left."

His expression did not even flicker. He stood there, just as still, but now she noticed his breathing – the ebb of his chest drew her eyes down, granting her awareness to the absence of his jacket and necktie.

Quickly, she righted her gaze, hoping he hadn't noticed. He looked so serious, so disconcertingly disconcerted. Before she could prepare herself, his hand lifted from his side to grip the railing. He walked down those three marble steps, approaching her slowly as the room around her seemed to heat like a furnace.

"What do you talk about while I'm away?" His voice was more wilted than the petals of the flower she had dropped – tentative, cold, and almost hurt.

"What do I talk about...with Edward?"

He carefully nodded, lips pursed and eyes narrowed slightly with shrewd intensity.

With a dismissive wave of her hand, Esme forced a smile and sweetened her voice. "Anything, really. Whatever we feel like talking about at the moment."

She couldn't very well admit that _he _was their favorite conversation piece, so she kept her mouth tightly sealed and hoped Carlisle would be merciful enough to change the subject.

He didn't.

"Well, what were you talking about just tonight?"

He was so slick with that mild curiosity – so innocent, so unargumentative. He spoke in a way that demanded an answer, his fragile tone harnessing a crafty power to woo her into telling the truth.

"Tonight..." she began shakily, turning away from him to look out the windows at the trees. "Edward was explaining to me about the c—"

She halted mid-sentence, every part of her mind screaming that this was entirely inappropriate to bring up now of all times. And what was she thinking being bold enough to introduce such a topic while alone with Carlisle of all people?

"The what?" His accent peaked upon his words, coaxing the answer forth from her before she could stop herself.

"Ah, about the concept of...vampire mates."

That damned owl hooted mockingly at her from somewhere above them, and Esme cursed herself rather colorfully several times in her mind.

Carlisle was perfectly silent for a good five seconds before he responded with a whispery "Oh" of acknowledgment.

He sighed – a wonderful, world-on-my-shoulders, weighty sigh. Then she felt him move so close behind her that he brushed against her back. Several chills danced up her spine, in a race to see which could reach her neck first. With some surprise, she felt him bend over behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, Esme watched as Carlisle carefully picked up the fallen honeysuckle blossom by her bare feet.

"It is rather bittersweet, isn't it?" he asked her in a voice that flowed like sad silk. For a moment she thought he was referring to the last flower.

Questioningly, she turned around fully to face him, first looking down to the droopy petals in his open palm, then to his eyes.

The absence of hope in his gaze floored her as he continued in his hushed voice, "That a vampire will always long for a mate, despite his inability to procreate."

Both pairs of eyes dropped to the flower in his hand, to watch as he gently caressed the dead petals with his thumb. Something so saddening and uncomfortable to speak about should have never been brought up. But here they were, with the unspoken notion hovering in the air between them, and neither had any way to escape the pressure now.

A faint hum of agreement trembled in Esme's throat, and she felt herself sinking inside of her own body, torn and tortured by his so obviously _personal _confession.

She refused to look up at him – even when the motions of his finger slowed to a pause, even when he lowered his hand; even when he closed the flower inside his fist so that she had nothing left to look at but him...

And because he had so cleverly left her with nothing to look at, she was forced to look up at his face.

The moon seemed particularly fond of the angles of his jaw, somehow rendering them even more defined under her gentle silver beams. The dim, loving waves of light laved over the contours of his despicably handsome face as though trying to console him. Everything was on pause around them, save for his eyes_, _which were searching hers in frantic stillness, burrowing themselves deeper and deeper into her own until she felt she had no space left to take him in.

His lips parted. He blinked. Then, he spoke.

"But in an ironic way...we _can _procreate." His eyes grew sad. "Only by taking the humanity away from another human."

Before he had even finished the words, Esme blindly reached for Carlisle's closed hand and took it between both of hers. She knew it was thoughts of Annaliese that clamored behind his immobile façade. She wished to calm the voices of his doubt with a hush of her lips. She wanted to show him it was useless to worry now, when it could all be put behind him. But all she could do was stroke the strong white ridges of his knuckles with her fingers and let him spill his sadness into her eyes.

"Annaliese was so _human_."

Esme was slightly taken aback by his unexpected words. Even more surprising was the pang of jealousy she felt upon comparing her own_ lack_ of humanity to the ample humanity of Annaliese. Swiftly composing herself, Esme responded softly, "Oh, I'm sure she must have been."

At this moment, it was so important that she be strong for Carlisle. It was so important that he _speak _about what was troubling him.

"She reminded me of you," he whispered.

Utterly shocked, Esme could barely think of how to respond. After so long feeding off of pointless envy for the girl, it left her numb to now know that Carlisle had thought of _her _when treating Annaliese.

Esme attempted to smile, but Carlisle only looked down in sadness.

"Her brothers and her sisters—" he paused to breathe in sharply, "They were so... I'd never seen anything so beautiful and innocent."

The striking flash of an unnamed infant child's face left a burning sunspot in the dark nest of Esme's mind. "Children _are_...beautiful and innocent," she agreed without hesitation. She could think of no better words to describe them herself.

Carlisle closed his eyes, and his face almost became content. It was only the lightest clutch of stress between his fair golden brows that destroyed that contentment.

But she could not lose him now. Not when he was speaking. It was so important that he _speak._

It was so important that she listen and respond.

"They cried."

He'd said it with such simplicity of syntax. Such awkward but succinct posture in his wording. So unaffected that it affected her – deeply.

Esme all too suddenly wanted to cry herself.

"Did you comfort them?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.

He bowed his head away from the moon. "I tried."

His heart was so prominent in just those two words.

"They were blessed to have you as their doctor," Esme whispered.

His eyes snapped open to stare at her, so stark and blazingly intimate that she tightened her hold on his hand with the shock.

For a while he only stared and breathed, and almost nearly smiled – but it was a smile that spoke of irony and sadness, and decisions to be later regretted.

Esme matched this undefined snippet of a smile as best she could, letting her fingers roam soothingly over the cool contours of his folded hand. She always forgot how miraculous it felt to touch him. His hand was like malleable marble under each careful caress. Occasionally one of his fingers would twitch if she lingered on it, and then she would move shakily to the next.

"I've been meaning to thank you for the other morning." His voice was like dusk.

She cocked her head innocently, as if the blatant implications in his voice were not clear.

He continued patiently, "For helping me...cope." He paused to let his lips twist into a sheepish wince, and his voice dropped even lower, as if the plants around them might be eavesdropping. "You have no idea how I've cherished your condolences, no matter how small."

Esme smiled. One side of her mouth felt heavier than the other, and she imagined it might have looked awkward, but she didn't care. Carlisle had just said he _cherished _her.

Or...her _condolences. _He cherished her condolences.

"Just this..." Before she knew it, he was speaking again. And he was twisting his hand underneath hers as she touched him, placing his other hand over her fingers and touching each of them in turn. "Just a single touch." His voice raised the faintest note on the last word, and his eyes marveled at the strange, soft tangle of their hands. "It means so much to me."

He looked up, and she felt the wonder in his eyes spill into hers.

The tangle of their touch unraveled slowly and patiently, opening his hand to reveal the crumpled honeysuckle that lay hidden in his palm.

Carlisle told Esme to keep the flower, because he could not bear to watch it wilt.

* * *

_**A/N**__: I have added a chapter in __Behind Stained Glass__ that gives some insight into Edward's mind and a little bit of his history regarding his relationship with Carlisle. This chapter is posted as "Chapter 8: The Fires of Heaven, The Waters of Hell."_


	27. The Dangers of Daydreams

**Chapter 27:**

**The Dangers of Daydreams**

* * *

Carlisle placed the wilted honeysuckle into Esme's hand and pressed her thin fingers over its petals, encouraging her to protect it. It had died the moment she plucked it from its vine, but when Carlisle held it, she thought she could see the potential for new life in the lifeless blossom. Esme took that sad little symbol of lost fertility and crushed it inside the pages of _The Geography of South America_. There the flower would be preserved forever, between pages 130 and 131, alongside the map of South America's eastern coastline.

She knew it would be safe there, in its timeless place of slumber. With a sigh, Esme dared to dream what her life would have been like if the flower had not wilted.

As a human, Esme had dreamed. Every night, something wild and often fantastical would unleash itself in the boiling crucible of her mind.

But a human's dreams were only illusions. If she dreamed of breaking the candy bowl, it was fixed again in the morning. If she was swallowed whole by a serpent, she was alive again in the morning. The dreams were always gone once the morning came.

As a vampire, Esme had nothing but daydreams. She could no longer pass into a separate realm for the world of fantasy. Her fantasies instead merged seamlessly with the mornings that followed them, and this was so very dangerous to her.

She would find time to daydream only when she was entirely alone. During the days when Edward and Carlisle might take one of their lengthy walks by the lake together, discussing everything that they would never dare discuss in her presence, she would take the time to let her mind run wild.

And only in her bedroom could she do this properly.

The other rooms felt dangerous, open and unguarded. If she were to think any thoughts in the dining room or the hall or the ballroom, those thoughts seemed to linger there after she left. In the event that another person might walk into that very room, it seemed they could somehow sense those thoughts she had carelessly left behind.

The bedroom Esme had been given was but a useless necessity that served only as a retreat during the eventless nights that would have normally been occupied by sleep. It was a ridiculously spacious room, having been the master quarters at one time. It had its own fireplace and a private balcony that faced the West, overlooking the lake. The extensive sea of indigo carpet that stretched across the floor gave the room an air of regality, as did the matching violet curtains that framed several of the windows. The ceiling was sloped and the windows were so tall that they stretched nearly two stories, letting so much light inside during the day that no lamps were needed.

Her bed was an elaborate antique with polished cherry-wood cherubs carved into the headboard and a canopy of thick curtains that kept playful moonbeams out. It was too high, with too many quilts, and she was sure that if a small enough child tried to sleep in it, he would get lost. She studied the layers of covers with a strange fascination, and sometimes when she was lacking things to do, she would rearrange the layers in a different way. She refrained from using her vampire speed to save time. She needed to _waste _time.

There was a clean white sheet beneath everything else that had to be tucked under the mattress. On top of that, there was a second, thicker cotton sheet with an embroidered edging of small violet roses. Over that there were several satin sheets, in various shades of twilight, covered by a fluffy white comforter. The final layer was a deep azure quilt of fine silk that reminded her of a cold ocean. This was the order in which they were supposed to be layered, but Esme found it amusing to mix them up. Many times she would put the bottom sheet on top, and the thickest quilt underneath all of the others.

The bed had exactly twelve pillows, three of which were merely decorative. Three fluffy white, cloud-like pillows leaned against the headboard, then three more pearl-white pillows with silk casing. There were three slightly smaller, softer pillows in brilliant sea-blue tones that were stuffed with goose feathers. Then the two plum-colored, square-shaped pillows with the embroidered roses on them, and the cream-colored, oval-shaped satin pillow that went in the center.

She sometimes surrendered to lay her head upon that very pillow, sighing in silence as she dwelt pleasantly inside her perfect memories. If she listened to the silence for long enough, she could remember and hear the poetic syntax of his profoundly gentle voice, lilting like leaves in the wind.

_"You will never have to go through any of that ever again..."_

She remembered the way his eyes had pierced her with his promise, knowing the secrets of her life were safe in him from the moment she confessed them.

_"Your eyes are like the sunset." _

To recall his words and the tender way he had said them made her heart pounce with glee.

_"It's just one little expression, or the way your eyes move; the way the light falls upon your face..." _

Esme relived these moments countless times, each more profound now than it had ever seemed before.

_"._.._the way the light falls upon your face..." _

It thrilled her to know that Carlisle had noticed those reflections dancing over her skin, as she had so religiously watched them dance over his. It meant something different to him, of course – his recollections were of innocent fondness. Hers were something different entirely, and she tried to tuck them away, hide them under the pillows of that lavish bed and never let them see the light of day.

It was a shame she could not sleep, because she imagined her bed would have been frightfully comfortable in a time of fatigue. It was, nevertheless, quite pretty to look at.

But no matter how beautiful it might have been, a bed was useless now. A bed had no use.

No use. At all.

None.

Sweet Lord, she wanted to be loved – slowly and thoroughly and passionately – _on that bed._

It had been smarting in the back of her mind for so long, the desire she kept carefully tucked beneath her heart. Deep down she had known it was only a matter of time before it tackled her from all sides, pressed her against the wall, and forced her to face her greatest fear.

Her eyes were slaves to the beautiful doctor's every graceful move – every sweep of his arm, every step of his feet, every blink of his eyes. Until now, those had been the only things she had noticed, but suddenly these were not enough. Even the most innocent motion of his hand as he pulled back the curtains became a suggestion in her mind. A single hand on his knee seemed to beckon her. A brief glance in her direction was a desperate signal for her consent.

It took only one innocent moment for her to imagine him, lying in that bed in her room. And he had not even been lying _with_ her in this second-long dream – he had been alone, in the very place she would lay when she daydreamed. And his skin was bare.

Those sleek blue sheets had been pulled up to his chest, the light from those partly curtained windows streamed lovingly over him, and he was glistening like a perfect sleeping statue of opalescent chalcedony. He'd looked so real in her mind – so real that she had crept on tiptoe up to the bed that morning and peeked around the canopy to be sure he was not really there.

But it wasn't real. Her imagination, no matter how vivid, could never conjure truth for her to touch. She wanted so badly to touch him now. More than she had ever wanted to touch anything before. Even more than that, she wanted him to touch her; she wanted him to _want _to touch her. No longer did she wish to settle for just the brush of an elbow or the grasp of a single hand. No, she wanted too much more than that. More than she should have, and more than her poor mangled heartstrings could withstand.

She was noticing things she had never noticed before, letting things bother her that had never bothered her before. Sometimes in the very early morning she could hear him. Undressing himself. Bathing.

Her ears had never paid a smidgen of attention to these sounds before, but now it was impossible to ignore them.

He was scarcely a few yards away from her, down that hall, in the washroom. Every morning, at the same time. She listened to the rustle of his clothing, the caress of fabric brushing loosely over his skin as he unveiled his body for no one but himself. She could hear the predictable rush of hot water, could smell the frothy fragrance of the soap, could feel the subtle steamy pressure of heat floating in the air around her. She tried not to listen to the gentle scrubbing of sponge against flesh, tried not to imagine his hands roaming over his body, tried not to envision the way the lather might clothe him for a fleeting minute or two before melting off of his beautiful limbs, leaving his pale, perfect body nude without audience.

She tried not to wonder what he thought about as he swiped the stubborn suds from his slippery skin. Did he think of it as just another daily task? Were his thoughts only looking ahead to the rest of his day? Or could it have been possible that his mind was just as preoccupied with indecency as hers was during this most intimate of moments?

Because she could not lower herself into her own bath, filled with water of the very same temperature, and use the very same soap without thinking of _him..._

Esme now found herself desperately pining for something she had once considered an evil, something that had once brought her nothing but pain and dishonor.

But those memories were so distant now – so distant, in fact, that she had to wonder if she had imagined half of her very life. She only remembered a very naïve sentiment regarding sex, as an adolescent with little else to worry herself over. She had feared sex from the very beginning, not only from the moment of her engagement, but long before it. She was somewhat sure that this fear had never been _taught _to her. It simply existed there in her subconscious, along with everything else she suspected would ruin her to some degree in her life.

Ironically, her fears were still present. Her marriage _had _ruined her; sex _had _ruined her. By the rules of cause and effect, it had ultimately brought her to the brink of suicide. Had Carlisle not saved her, it would have meant her death. This sterile power sex held was what both frightened her and, regretfully, intrigued her. It was that power which threatened to ruin her without ever touching her again. It was a justified sin in the form of an infant child. It was dark and noxious and uncontrollable and unstable.

But Esme knew that it could not _possibly _be like that...with Carlisle. Even if it retained its unpredictable darkness, every nightmare she had been made to endure with her monster of a husband would have melted seamlessly into a dream with this saint of a surgeon. The fear that surrounded this realm was still sound, but it was looser now, and it quietly begged her for relief every waking second. She had to consider the possibility that sex was not the same for a vampire. She knew it was possible_,_ having been made quite aware that arousal continued to plague her in much the same way. But if there were significant differences in how it was carried out, she was blind to them, with no way to enlighten herself.

Perhaps it was pointless for her to worry herself over such things when there was no possibility that she would ever face the situation herself. This should have relieved her, but it only saddened her. There was no excuse _not_ to remain celibate for eternity when there were two very handsome pieces of evidence to the contrary under the same roof as her. At least, it was possible.

But this never stopped her from _thinking _about it, considering it, fantasizing a bit too flagrantly about what it might be like. In the beginning she tried to dismiss it as a natural bout of sexual frustration brought about by a newborn's unpredictable mood swings. In the beginning, it was simple and fleeting. In the beginning, her imaginary lover had been faceless. But he was dissatisfying from his birth. All too quickly, his skin shone paler than snow, his hair brightened to blond, and his eyes filled with a terrible golden flush.

And she could _see _it all playing out before her, on that mattress – the graceful, weightless dance of their bodies as they clung to each other, lost in the deafening silence of their passions. They would be lost in the sea of those beautiful blue sheets. Her hands would be lost in the swollen halo of his luscious blond hair. Their breath would be lost in each other's lungs.

She saw it – every disturbing, flowing movement of it – every time her restless eyes glanced in the general direction of that offending piece of furniture.

His lips latched onto her fragile flesh in the same way they gently savored blood from a fawn's throat. Her legs, small and slender, braced around the strong sleek lines of his back. The harmony of pelvic symmetry intimately welded beneath the taunting privacy of the quilts.

In her daydreams she could sigh his name freely; she could whisper all three syllables against his marble shoulder as his gentle fingers disrobed her and traced reverently over the curves of her body.

In her daydreams he murmured her name as well, and she imagined the vivid velvet of his melodious accent as it swished delicately over the 's', clear as lukewarm water in her ear.

In her daydreams she tasted his skin, and it was like orange blossoms that had survived the dead of winter. The cool warmth of his skin brushed away the Decembers and Januaries from her frigid heart while his fingers clasped and clutched wherever he pleased, and the places they pressed burst to life under his touch. She kissed his porcelain chin and mumbled prose of adoration against the soft flesh of his earlobe. Her eyelashes fluttered against the masculine ivory of his beautiful throat. Her curious fingers followed the exquisite ripple of muscle in his waist as he swiftly joined their bodies between sheets of moonlit silk.

Should there come a time when these kinds of thoughts failed to evoke excitement any longer, Esme had not yet reached that point of exhaustion, and it appeared to be nowhere in sight. There was always a sugary sadness twisting deep in her belly – a bittersweet blizzard of longing and guilt and wretched arousal each time she imagined how Carlisle might love her.

Sometimes she would open her eyes and the fantasy would continue to plague her, pale mist trapping her in this bedroom as she imagined his unmistakable physique armored by a glow of ethereal dream-silt, standing just outside the curtain of her canopy. He was ghostlike, but so very alive – silent, but his eyes were blazing with amber oceans of passion. He was tall and certain and strapping, and so oblivious to the seduction in his stance, even in her imagination. His smooth white fingers would dip between the sides of his collar, pluck the first tiny button, then the second, then the third... It was so real, she could almost hear the fabric as it sighed in relief, nearly free from the strain his body imposed upon it...

But he never made it past that third button. His lips would part, and his eyes would close, and he would bow his head like a sleeping angel, surrendering himself to the gentle embrace of invisibility. The perfumed fog of lust swept him away and shredded his beautiful figure from view. It polluted her room and petrified her femininity, and when it dispersed, it left only one thing in its wake.

The ache.

Her throat was dry and her lap was moist. She felt thirstier than she ever had been, but not for blood.

Her body was begging _his_ to take it, and he had no idea. No idea at all how disgracefully ready she was, just at the sound of his breath. He had her dangling over a precipice, taunting her with the eternal warmth of his loving embrace. If she allowed herself to tumble over the edge, floating down a long and beautiful fall, he would catch her with proud, strong arms and claim her as his own. All she had to do was jump.

But God could not relieve her, for Esme thought of her doctor in every way until the aching inside of her made her weep, and she could take no more. She could have easily placed the blame on the erratic nature of newborn desires, but deep down she knew it was so much more than that. Having forever been at the mercy of a man whose hands did nothing but sin, she longed to be at the mercy of a man whose hands did nothing but heal.

Making love to Carlisle would have been like making love to the sunbeams that poured in through her window every morning. Warm and dangerous. And above all, senseless.

She would have been playing with sweet, gentle fire.

He was a taunting item of questionable golden purity. It seemed to Esme that God would chide any woman who dared to look upon Carlisle Cullen in the slightest suggestive manner. To imagine the eyes of her doctor upon her bare, open flesh with the same delectable reverence he showed the Scriptures was unthinkable. Would he find her worthy of his notoriously indecent concentration upon a bed rather than the operating table? Would his passions for these more important parts of his life _–_ his devotion to faith and his obsession with healing _–_ be outshone by his passion for a woman?

It was physically painful for her to imagine these things, and yet the more taboo her thoughts became, the more addicting they were.

His eyes, as breathtaking in their vigilance as they were, would surely sear her skin with their intensity. He saw _so much_... If she were to lie trustingly beneath his gaze, even in the darkest hours, he would see her heart, her mind, and what was left of her soul.

To imagine Carlisle loving her in this way was suddenly not so far-fetched as it had once seemed. Carlisle _could_ love in this way. He could love _her_ in this way.

He seemed perfectly oblivious to how he could offer a woman so much in the way of love. Esme could see that he possessed the spiritual intensity, the unspoken passion, the reckless generosity… all of it so ideal and promising for this very purpose. So precisely what she needed…

The insufferable attention and utter care he showed in an act as simple as folding a piece of paper was all the evidence necessary to make her claim. Oh, to think how he would carry this blistering benevolence, this luscious sensitivity to bolder, more intimate contexts.

But there was almost a kind of shield around him – a dimly glowing envelope to protect him which had been placed there by holy means. He was cocooned from any advances in her mind, as if God had deemed him untouchable, and this rule unbreakable. Esme feared she could never intrude this perfect, impenetrable barrier that so faithfully surrounded Carlisle. No matter how much she wished to share that warm, heavenly cocoon of his, she had yet to receive invitation from the angels. Perhaps it was for the best that she remain an uninvited observer. She could do unimaginable damage to this divine space that had been reserved specifically for him alone.

If she were to somehow accidentally fall inside, she would be forced against him, close enough that the deep, hard ache of his purest passions would smother her into suffocation.

It was possible this mystical entry could mean her end.

But some mysterious, clandestine, womanly part of her desired nothing more than _that. _For him to gently force himself into her, tenderly stretch her to the point of tearing, lovingly fill her to the point of flooding – reverently testing the unthinkable limits of her body, compassionately challenging her femininity.

The back of her mind continuously taunted her with the stirring image of him, strong, beautiful, and utterly nude above her. His eyes were pools of burning topaz, their edges charred with encroaching ebony as he closed the distance between their bodies and made her aware of his needs with one faint brush of his hips against hers. He would hover above her, his breath floating down into her as if into a fine bed of feathers, landing so softly, without a sound. He would thoroughly love every inch of her, slow and precise with every caress, kindling a mutual fever for both their bodies until they could not stand a second longer in such painful separation.

The last threshold would see him gazing down at her with hooded eyes as he gently impaled her delicate flesh with deliberate grace, and his arms would be her sanctuary; his compassion would be her mercy. Never would a single night pass without first seeing them unified. The darkness would swallow them, fueling their sensitive desires with its seductive shade so that it might watch them greedily for as long as it pleased. And then the sun would make its graceful intrusion, gazing down at them tenderly, assuring them that if they needed, the day would embrace their love as well.

The dawn would find her, always, folded between his arms and tucked beneath the sheets, where she would stare out at the silhouette of black pines against a rosy gray fog. The cold pink mist invaded their room through the open windows, caressing their skin with the early morning chill. And he held her even tighter, like she was his other half, never wanting to part with her for even one moment.

And then Esme realized with ample shame, just how carried away she had gotten in her wistful daydreams, yet again.

Her mind made vain attempts to be dogmatic about it – as if these thoughts were normal – as if she were only professionally considering his capabilities as a potential lover, _in theory. _But the truth was that she did not want this to be theoretical. In some other dimension, it _was _a possibility. And that broke her heart because she had no means to cross the bridge into _that _reality. Her reality – _their _reality – was a tangible but utterly uncontrollable thing. Even the thought of bringing such dreams to life was a bitter insanity. Esme had fooled herself into thinking this fantasy was possible; that her fantasies could have been compatible with the truth, as only she wished to see them. But this was preposterous.

She'd somehow forced herself into doubting that this was something Carlisle wanted just as desperately. Being the holy and strictly pious man he was, should he regard the act as unclean having no means for procreation as a vampire? Did he, deep down, admit to the desire, but remain chaste in practice? Did he ever wonder if God would view physical love between vampires as an evil?

Did he fear it? Did he want it? Did he both fear _and _want it?

She did not even know whether he still possessed his virginity from his humanity. Was it fair to be so desiring of such a trait in a potential mate when she technically did not possess it herself? In many ways, Esme imagined herself still a virgin... But would Carlisle see her as she saw herself?

It made him all the more unattainable in her mind when she remembered that for this fantasy to be made real, they would, in all likelihood, have to first be _married. _Reminding herself just how far away from this eternal commitment they were at the present time sucked her heart dry.

If only it had been reasonable to hope that, one day, perhaps within the next week or even the next hour, Carlisle would suddenly drop to his knee and propose to her. No work or hardships or building up necessary. Just one moment, one request, one response.

But in this God-forsaken reality, this would never bean option. She could not be presumptuous or wishful enough to hope for such a miracle.

Carlisle marrying her made not a shred of sense as far as she could see. The man was practically a priest, and yet... Perhaps he had been married before as well. Would he have mentioned something so personal to her? Had he been forced to abandon his human lover upon becoming a vampire? He would have had no choice but to never see her again, parted forever by the disunity of separate centuries.

It made Esme's heart burn like a hot clump of magma inside her chest, considering the possibility that Carlisle had known another woman before her, perhaps even intimately. She would be damned if he had. The thought of his mouth descending upon another woman's neck as she lay in his bed wrought Esme's entire body with a plague of fiery pests. This irrational protectiveness over him terrified her. It was all too animalistic and devoid of any control. The thought of him showing affection to any other female, whether or not she was entirely imagined, made Esme vicious with boiling anger. Her venom would gush in silky streams beneath her tongue, so rampantly that she was forced to spit the substance from her mouth to save herself from choking.

Any of these scenarios could have justified the danger of her thoughts, and while she desperately wanted to stop thinking them, such an expectation was about as possible as refusing a vial of human blood being shoved beneath her nostrils.

Edward had stopped approaching her with conversation since her thoughts had taken on the inappropriate intensity, and Esme was too ashamed to approach him herself with an apology. She spent much of her time avoiding him whenever she could manage it. But that didn't stop him from hearing and seeing her every thought.

Oh, the exquisite distress that could be aroused by a simple _bed._

When looking at that bed became too much to bear, she fled from the house and filled her senses with nothing but nature. Birds were the same, trees were the same, skies were the same. She could _breathe _out here. Carlisle's scent was far enough away that her temptation to drink it was muted, but it was never gone completely.

She let her head fall back against a tree, eyes almost watering as she stared hatefully back at the mansion behind her. Before she could curse at the ridiculousness of her behavior, Edward's stern reprimand for being outside unaccompanied rang in her ears.

Whipping around, she bumped him, face to face, and he did not look at all pleased.

"_You need to stop_," he hissed so that Carlisle would not have overheard from the house.

A gaggle of angry crows fluttered loudly away from their voices, cawing in displeasure as they were forced to move to another tree.

"I'm sorry," she offered lamely to the ominous sky above her, choking on her own words.

Edward's eyes were blazing but his face was disconcertingly calm as he forced his mouth into a thin line. "You don't need to apologize. Just stop thinking like that," he emphasized the words slowly and pointedly, gripping her elbow for her attention.

_Edward, you can't ask me to do that. It isn't that simple. _

His head dropped to his hand for an instant, and he heaved a patient breath as he carefully lifted his eyes. "I realize this sounds selfish—really Esme, I do. But you must at least _try_ to keep it from getting worse," he chuckled bitterly, "for my sake."

"I'm _trying_, Edward," she whimpered, breaking away from his hold on her arm. Her dress suddenly felt too tight, and her stomach felt too empty.

"No. You aren't." His voice was so quiet she thought she had only imagined it.

Maybe it was really her conscience.

She swallowed a defensive mouthful of venom, and Edward groaned.

"Please, Esme..." He winced wanly even while his eyes grudgingly softened. "Just—please." He paused to breathe, eyes twitching with subtle warning. "You're about to cross a line, here."

Not knowing what would be appropriate to say at such a time, she merely shook her head, and he seemed satisfied at the significant absence of thought from her mind. At least for a moment.

"I know how hard it is," he grumbled in a low voice as his face turned back to the house. His eyes squeezed shut in a pained way and he braced one hand against his forehead. "Sometimes I wish I could just make myself _deaf_ so I wouldn't have to hear it all..."

Esme flinched with pity, hesitating to reach out and place a hand on his shoulder. She decided against it.

"I'm sorry, Edward."

He groaned, drawing the words out in frustration. "Stop...apologizing." His head pressed against his hand and he froze still, breathing heavily.

She backed away awkwardly, fingers placed firmly over her bottom lip. "I don't know what else to do."

She waited for him to respond, watching as he slowly pulled himself upright. He stared at her for a moment, eyes warring with his mind as they flicked over her face, as she tried to keep her thoughts pure.

Apparently she was not impressing him.

"Come on," Edward finally murmured, taking her by the hand. She followed complacently as he dragged her up the hill, back to the house and through the hall, mumbling something about '_getting it out of her system once and for all_.'

Once she realized what he was implying, she had no strength left to fight him. Instead it was with vehement reluctance that she accepted the clever trap he had set for her.

"Did God tell you to build an ark yet, Carlisle?" Edward asked with mock-interest as he breezed through the doors to the doctor's study.

Carlisle's head shot up from the gilded text he was absorbed in, a fleeting wince of embarrassment crossing his lips before he straightened his face. He said nothing, but Esme felt his gaze instantly fixed upon her, and she frowned as Edward let go of her hand.

Carlisle cleared his throat in concern. "What is going on, son?"

"I need to get away for a while," Edward explained with a sigh. "You'll watch her, won't you? Make sure she doesn't try to run away again." He nudged Esme further into the room as he backed away.

"Run away again?" Carlisle's eyes widened in startled confusion, rising from his chair. But Edward was already gone.

In the wretched silence, Carlisle stared at Esme questioningly from behind his desk, waiting for her to explain herself.

"I didn't try to run away. I—" she began to defend herself, but was stopped by the way he was looking at her, the way he seemed so devastatingly worried at the prospect that she had tried to leave. "I..."

She was speechless.

"...I wasn't running away."

Her whispered assurance was lost across the room, but Carlisle remained standing as if poised to strike, his eyes never breaking from her face.

_Running away. _

He thought she had been running away.

Suddenly the idea did not seem so unappealing.

"I'll just go on upstairs—"

"Will you stay?" he swiftly interrupted before she could reach the door. "Please."

_Please. _

No matter he said the word, it was unrefusable in the quilt of his gentle tenor.

Her hands fell to her sides in reluctant defeat, everything heavy and unclean churning unpleasantly in the pit of her stomach as she turned around to watch him tuck his chair decisively under the desk. She cringed at the sound of it – the wooden knock of finality, the stifling silence that followed.

He wanted to _talk. _

"Esme, I regret very much that I've been...inattentive to your needs in these past few weeks."

"I'm not sure I follow," she murmured innocently, her voice coming out raspier than she had intended.

Carlisle's eyes lifted at once in golden suspicion, his hand rising to sift through the angelic mane of hair over his head. Caught in her wary stare, he sighed. "There are many things we've not spoken of in great detail that we perhaps _should_ have some time ago." His stance bore more certainty as he crossed the front of the desk and leaned against the edge with his hands tucked behind his tailbone. "You see, newborn vampires go through certain _stages_, if you will—times where they might feel the need to escape. An avoidance."

_An avoidance indeed._

Esme imagined if her heart were in order, it would be exercising quite vigorously at the sight before her. It hadn't struck her so strongly before, to study the length of his legs or the broadness of his shoulders. He was so conveniently placed for her to notice such things about him. Physical things.

"Hm." She hummed succinctly, a clever way to indicate both her loss in thought and having little to say.

Carlisle did not appear convinced. He blinked once, lifted his chin, and dug into the eyes of the woman across from him.

"What do you _want_, Esme?"

The question was, in all context of her current stream of thoughts, perpetually intimate. At the time she could conjure no better reaction than to beg for his pardon.

His lungs expanded, doing all kinds of subtle and beautiful things to the fabric that clung to his chest.

"For me it was company. For Edward it was—and still is—independence," he explained, leaning forward in interest when she shifted in discomfort. "Forgive my boldness in asking, but what do you _wish _for, more than anything else?"

Oh, how to answer such a question. She could think of a thousand answers, none of which should ever be uttered aloud. She wished for his promises, whispered under moonlight; she wished for a cellmate in a prison of quilts. She wished he would drown himself inside of her until she became _his _prison.

Yes, these were the things she wished for more than anything else. And if she could not answer literally, she could still, in the right manner of speech, answer honestly.

"I wish for...an answer to every question," she said, her eyes lifting longingly over endless rows of books, as if the literature bound before her could reveal such answers. "A reason for why I am here. A reason to believe I have purpose still, in this life."

She stepped a little closer to him with each word she spoke, victimized by the twisted demands of her heart. And when she at last approached the side of his desk, her hand running boldly over the dark wooden edge, Carlisle turned his head to look upon her profile with a puzzled complexion.

"Do you honestly believe that you have no purpose?" His voice was deliciously hoarse, thrillingly challenging.

"I feel that I have little reason to hope for better." She looked up into his eyes trustingly, but hoped to hide her weakness. "And I wonder if eternity is really worth it..."

Her words trailed away like dandelion spores, and all hopes for hiding weakness were gone in the breeze.

Carlisle's eyes flickered, his jaw tightening slightly as he slipped the stethoscope from around his neck. He discarded the companionable instrument with a careful hand, placing it between them on the desk so that it became a convenient place for their wandering eyes to rest.

"You should know that I once felt the same way," his voice penetrated the silence with a clandestine deepness appropriate to such revelation.

With her eyes still fixed to the stethoscope, Esme quietly muttered her acknowledgment. "Really..."

It would have bore the lilt of a question at the end, but she was already certain of the truth in his words.

For a few moments he stood, solid and silent beside her. Then he slid slowly closer, his thighs grazing against the polished edge of the desk until the fabric of his trousers touched her hand.

"I wish you would tell me more, Esme."

The intimacy in his voice was unbearable. He was far too close.

For a soft, brief moment, that voice was coming from a pillow beside her, nothing but several inches of satin to separate her from its fleecy timbre. Then it all came back – the hard, real world – the cold wood and the straining distance, and the incurably male pressure of the body beside her...

"There are so few things worth telling," she insisted in a shaky voice, unable to fake nonchalance when Carlisle was all but brushing up against her with every breath.

"Oh, but that isn't true." His insistence was far more convincing, disturbingly certain. "I want you to be content here, not uncomfortable. I want to give you choices, when you are ready to make those choices. I want you to feel that you are properly prepared to join the world again one day."

She released a sigh of exhaustion and bit her lip, trying to think of a remotely appropriate response to such words.

"I'm so afraid that I won't ever feel that way, Carlisle," she whimpered, shaking her head. "It has nothing to do with you or Edward or anything else. It's just...me." She turned to face him bravely, lifting her eyes only to ache at the crestfallen softness of his handsome face. Her fingers tingled with the urge to reach up and cradle his cheek. "You've been nothing but _incomprehensibly_ kind to me. It isn't that—"

"Shh, I know..." He stopped her with a gentle squeeze to her hand, sensing the rising tension in her voice. "I know. I understand."

"But I would never leave," she declared, tremulous despite her apparent certainty. "I would never run away from you or Edward."

"Esme..." He said her name, his voice caressing the syllables with such delicacy that she shivered. "Listen to me." Hearing the sudden but subtle command in his tone, she instinctively started to pull away, but he tugged her gently back. "No, dear, just for a moment, please."

His hands clasped each of hers as he pulled her back, and as her thigh came into briefest contact with his, she whimpered her reluctant submission.

"Things are going to change rather rapidly for you, most likely very soon. Your emotions may be unstable, and your reactions to things may be...visceral in ways you would not intend them to be." She tried to focus on his words, but her body was thrumming in every way to restrain its natural response to his nearness, to the way his voice wrapped around her and his fingers trapped hers. "Edward tells me he sees the signs in you. This isn't anything to be afraid of, but it is something you should be prepared for."

It hadn't become plain until Carlisle had stopped talking that amidst the persistent shaking of her head, she was quietly chanting the same words over and over: _"I'm not going anywhere. I'm not going anywhere."_

But Carlisle only continued on, talking over her in that infuriatingly wise voice. "I am not suggesting that you wish to leave, but I want to make it clear that our decisions are never stone clad. There is a possibility that, one day, you may change your mind—"

"No."

"Esme."

They stared significantly into each other's eyes for a drawn-out moment. A wise, golden-eyed feline and a meek, sunset-eyed little mouse.

Cats did not kiss mice.

Carlisle tilted his head into a more merciful angle to match her gaze. "I know what you are feeling right now." His voice was sure, but Esme knew that he could not have known her feelings. He did not know of the chills pulling through her arms and legs, or the tightness between her breasts that she felt might explode at any moment. "You feel so cut off from the rest of the world. I know what that feels like. I've been there. The uncertainty, the frustration. I've known all of it."

Her knuckles began to melt as he impressed soft stroking motions upon them with his thumbs.

"When will it go away?" she whispered into the heated silence.

His fingers stilled, and in his eyes she saw the topaz twinkling of all the truths he wished he could tell her. "When you have come to terms with the life you wish to lead," he replied.

If he only knew the life she _wished _to lead. The life she wanted was a normal life – a life like the one she had lost – only she imagined it far, far better, with a family who loved her. And if she was lucky enough to keep him forever, the man who now held her hands would love her most of all.

"What if I cannot have the life I want?"

When Carlisle let go of her hands, her heart was suicidal.

"Oh, Esme. You've still _so much_ to experience yet," he said with an audible pang in his sigh. "I can offer you only one path of many. You deserve a right to make the choice for yourself."

Choices, she could wish for. But she would never make the choice to abandon him. Never. Couldn't he see that? Could the glitter of wisdom in his fierce golden eyes have been just an illusion?

"I won't change my mind. I want to live the way you do." Despite the weakness in her gaze, her voice was firm and resolute. She would have seized his hands if she'd had the courage. The need to be heard _and_ felt was boiling under the surface. "I will _never _change my mind."

But Carlisle, God help him, was unrelenting.

"Edward once said the same. But he has moments of doubt." His voice, without warning, lowered into the softest of whispers, and he committed the danger of leaning closer to share the supposed secret. "He tells me. He struggles."

Esme took a deep breath and forced herself to look away.

His voice. She could not listen and hear his words. All she heard was _his voice. _She felt the warmth of it filling her belly, the softness of it pressing up against her heart.

His eyes were so close she could see every delicate fleck of warm color, like the pulp inside a citrus fruit, changing, deepening...

"Esme?" he whispered her name, and that was all it took.

Without precedent or thought or inkling of consequence, Esme reached out with her right hand and placed her palm, flush against the very close, very firm center of his chest.

The silence in the room never seemed so stark.

Carlisle looked down first, perhaps to see if the sudden compression to his stagnant heart was real. He stared idly at her small hand, his lungs petrified into stillness, impressively dumbfounded at the strange and uncalled for gesture.

Esme was still frozen in disbelief. No matter how many times her frantic mind _begged _that hand to move, it simply would not. Her hand was fascinated, and utterly content with where it had been placed, refusing to break the glorious fullness of such bold contact, refusing to release the solid heat of fabric and flesh that belonged to _him. _

At last Carlisle's eyes rose to stare at her, looking both perfectly perplexed and strangely compelled. There were beads of black setting in around the iris in each of his eyes, so tiny they were almost nonexistent. But Esme saw them, the way they marred those pools of smoothest gold.

Finally his doll-like lips pried open, ready to speak. To ask her, perhaps, if she meant to push him away...

Or did he know the true cause? Did he know of her uncontrolled urge to _touch _him. Was he aware of how suddenly that urge had overruled her, in both mind and hand?

Esme somehow managed to speak before he had his chance.

"I'm... I'm sorry." Her apology spilled like sand sifting through a strainer. No matter how small the words were, they still got stuck on the edge of her lips.

But Lord, her hand would _still_ _not budge. _

"It's all right..." Carlisle's voice was uncharacteristically tremulous, the reverberations shaking through from her open hand to her shoulder, his heat branching out from where she still touched him.

She not only touched him. She truly _felt _him. The effect was astounding.

Without ever taking his eyes from hers, he lifted his hand and took her wrist, gently and easily prying it away. The fleeting dark panic in his gaze fell away with her fingers, and he sighed in relief.

Surely he thought her mad.

"I just...want to be alone. To think..." she stammered, still mortifed from the brash accident, her body coursing with unspeakable sensations. "Please."

His eyes were churning with sympathy for her in her flustered speech, and he accepted her wish, as he did every other, with a telling bow of his head.

He let her go. As he should have.

Esme rushed through that door and up the stairs in a blur of numbness, overcome with confusion and defiance and humiliation, and thinking with putrid vehemence that this moment should never be brought up in either thought or speech _ever again. _

It was time to stop these pointless, hurtful games.

She should not be with Carlisle when she wanted him so terribly. Because that was all she wanted – him – between chaotic kisses and bare skin and cotton.

She wanted to curl her beckoning fingers against the underside of his chin, innocently coaxing his lips forward so she might consume him.

She wanted to strip him of his collar and let her fingers make love to the tart violet crescents at the base of his flawless neck.

She wanted to shred the sleeves that covered his arms and reveal the strong ceramic curves of his elbows, his arms, his shoulders.

She wanted to annihilate the space between their bodies and crash into him until they were one.

Only knowing what_ she_ wanted was not satisfying in the least. She longed to know what _he _wanted. Did a saint ever dream of kissing? Were his thoughts infinitely more disciplined than hers? She knew it would have been ridiculous to presume he had never dreamed of such things. Carlisle was a man as much as any other, and while this was disturbing to her, having knighted him an angel too many times in her naïve heart, it proved somehow comforting as well. She would not have to be alone in her sinful fantasies, but her doubts were nevertheless steep. He would possess a greater will to harness his desires, and this shamed her deeply. How long could he continue on this path of an all-around abstinent life? His limit was out there somewhere, if only she could extrapolate his dignity far enough to find it. And destroy it.

Sometimes she could see it in his gaze, that he may have _wanted_ to be destroyed by a woman's reckless love – that he may have wanted the hands of such a woman to purge him of his chastity once and for all. If this was truly what he wanted_, _Esme would have erupted for him, disgorging her love in a passionate flood of desperation that was not really desperate. Because she could never be desperate for Carlisle. Desperation implied that there were other options. And there were no other options with him. He was her only. The mere thought of loving any other man was repulsive. Unthinkable.

She knew not what he wanted, and perhaps she never would. But she knew what _she_ wanted, and it was him, belonging to her forever, in so many ways she could never have him, with so many words she could never utter.

And he had no idea. No idea at all, when he stared at her with his penetrating gaze, the erotic scenarios that had been racing just behind her innocent brow. How selfish she was for wanting his scent upon her bed sheets. How sinful she was for wanting every inch, every ounce, every strain of his love locked inside her forever.

His eyes were brimming with the colors of sunrise that no one ever woke up in time to see. But in her sleepless, endless nights, she had seen them all – both in the sky, and in his gaze. Surely with eyes like that, he noticed _something _about her aching heart when she was in his presence. Those patients who stripped themselves bare before him underwent physical examination daily and were given accurate diagnoses. Her heart was already stripped bare before him, so why had he not yet diagnosed _her_?

Perhaps because the prescription would have been far too much for her to ask of him.

* * *

_**A/N:**__ If you're keeping up with my companion story, __**Behind Stained Glass,**__ I have added a character study for Carlisle that complements the subjects of this particular chapter. You can read this under "Chapter 9: How Bright Does It Burn?" _


	28. Much Needed Distractions

**Chapter 28:**

**Much Needed Distractions**

* * *

Carlisle never mentioned what had happened between he and Esme in his study. Nothing that happened in that room was ever explained or spoken about outside of its walls. This was simply a rule which they each understood and obeyed.

This gesture of mysterious influence – this swift nudge of her hand – was an icon for her very wishes, Carlisle supposed.

Distance was what she sought. With her eyes alone, she was begging him, _Please… I need distance. _

He wanted to break through to her, but to respect her wishes, he would need to sacrifice that want. She was not ready to face the reality of her impending future, the choices that she must one day make.

While part of Esme was grateful that they'd never talked about it, she still had the itch to justify it in some manner. But to simply apologize again for what she had done, she feared, would have only shaken him more. Somehow, _not _speaking about it only made it more intimate. As if it were some terrible, thrilling secret.

Carlisle was usually so skilled at keeping an air of neutrality in every situation, but lately this had changed. She passed him in the hallway, and he would flinch. She stepped closer to him, and he might step back. She stared at him, and his eyes would subtly dilate, as if he felt the stroke of her gaze.

He was so _wary _around her.

She should have never touched him.

He cherished her touch in any context of sadness or pity, yet when she'd practically thrust her hand into his heart, he was scared out of his wits. He had every right to be, and she was ashamed.

It was so frustrating to have such little control over her actions. Her emotions were a mischievous council in her chest, discussing all the splendid little ways they could ruin her, each day at a time.

Carlisle understood this, as he had made abundantly clear.

"_Edward tells me he sees the signs in you," _he'd given her fair warning. _"This isn't anything to be afraid of, but it is something you should be prepared for…"_

Despite those taunting voices in the back of her head, Esme acted as politely as possible in the presence of the doctor, and they both pretended as if everything was fine. Edward spared them his strange glances when they spoke together, and he interjected when things became awkward. It was a pattern, a comfortable balance they had. For a while it worked, but they all knew they were treading just above the surface.

Ever since she had been caught "running away," Esme had become the victim of hawk-like vigilance on every corner she turned. She could not deny her thrill at being watched too carefully – by Carlisle, especially. She could sometimes hear him lingering outside the door of her library whenever there were animals passing through the forest. He would have been ready to pounce if she so much as opened the window for a bit of fresh air.

And just knowing he would have done that, had she dared to provoke him, was chilling.

So many things about him were chilling. Beginning with the sound of his voice.

"Esme."

He opened the door to her library, without asking her permission. He never did that.

There was a vague aura of darkness about him, despite how brightly he shone in the threshold. It was slightly disturbing, yet somehow a thing of beauty.

"Edward and I are going hunting," he told her. Simple, polite. But it was expected that she come along. She really didn't have a choice, and he tried to disguise this by his politeness.

Esme rose to her feet, tossing her books aside.

"I'm ready." Even though she had no shoes on yet.

She never wore shoes in the forest anyway.

Carlisle's eyes were always on her feet when she walked out the door. She imagined he might have been smirking.

Edward bolted ahead of them with his untied laces and his unruly hair in a wind-swept mess. He was always so grateful to get out of the house.

"Don't do that!" Esme called after him.

"What?"

"I'm supposed to be faster than you," she chuckled as his pause allowed her to easily pass him up.

"Hah!"

They raced for a minute or two, and the tempo of Carlisle's feet following a fair distance behind them became a comforting sort of white noise. It made Esme feel safe, and somehow she thought it might have felt the same way to Edward.

"Safe, Esme?" Edward chortled from between the trees. "We're indestructible!"

The buff enthusiasm in his youthful voice inspired a wide, almost feral grin to her face.

They _were_ indestructible.

She ran faster. So did Edward.

"Look at that." Carlisle's voice, a soft spot far behind them, sounded slightly marveled.

Both Edward and Esme came to a respective halt, staring at their sire in confusion. Then Edward gave a low, satisfied sort of laugh.

"You both run at nearly the same speed now," Carlisle clarified, sounding surprisingly somewhat saddened by this fact.

Esme crossed her arms and glared at Edward good-naturedly. "Do we?"

He wriggled his eyebrows in challenge. "Let's see."

And the boy was off again. Edward was terribly difficult to keep in one place. Then again, so was she.

Carlisle was a little bit furious.

"_Be careful!" _she thought she heard the doctor say. He was so far away.

"I know, I know." Edward groaned from close by, so much like an agitated son whose fun was consistently ruined by his overprotective father.

"_I mean Esme."_

Esme came to a standstill at the sweet concern in Carlisle's voice. She wanted him to come running right into her and knock her off her feet. She wanted him to find her, and she wanted to show him that she _was_ safe. She _was_ being careful. She wasn't going anywhere except where _they _were going…

But the scent was a pleasant distraction

Snap.

Snag.

Thump.

It was so easy by now, it was all but a helpless reflex.

Esme bent over the bleeding deer at her feet and drained it in minutes. Everything around her was so quiet and soft. What had she been worried about before…?

"Let me take care of that for you."

_Oh, of course. _

She was almost angry at Carlisle for interrupting. A light hissing noise came from her lips before she could stop it.

"You're finished aren't you?" he asked in defense. The low rumble in his own chest did not slip past her notice.

She looked down at the bloody mess of fur and lopsided limbs. It appeared she was.

He lifted the crushed carrion with one arm and moved to bury it for her.

"You don't need to do that, Carlisle."

But he was already on his knees, dark streaks of dirt covering his hands and his shirt.

"I insist." He looked up to pierce her with his stare, almost daring her to challenge his chivalry, and she licked the blood from her lips.

His eyes were so dark…and it looked like they were growing darker by the second.

"Go on, you're thirsty," she insisted, her voice meek and slippery.

He shook with a slightly disturbed chuckle. "I'll be fine."

"Carlisle?" Edward's voice intruded with a note of distressing concern.

Carlisle froze, snapping his head up with startling immediacy to attend to his son. "What is it?"

Edward shifted awkwardly, staring at Esme in a way that clearly expressed his wish that she had been absent for the moment. "Can… Can I show you something?" He tipped his head suggestively toward the trees behind him.

Carlisle looked plagued by an inner war for a moment as his hands clutched the limp legs of the doe in the dirt. His eyes flicked to Esme, then to Edward, as if the choice to leave one or the other was of dire consequence.

"I'll finish it," she told him, gently encouraging his hands to release her wasted prey.

He let go. His eyes hitched reluctantly to hers, and then he stood up. His scent was different, then. More powerful…deeper, almost sore…

"We'll be right back here," Edward told her as he led his father into the darker shadows.

Esme shivered once she was alone. Her hands went about the task of burying her kill with the same ease they would have washed the dishes when she had finished supper. It was sad, really, how second-nature this all was now. The hunt.

But there was still something delicious about it beneath the necessity.

Here was her proof.

Snap.

Snag.

Thump.

There was a bold crunch of dead leaves, an orchestra of scattered acorns, and a crashing wave of his spirited scent. Cold, then hot, then frozen still.

She was struck in the heart.

He growled – and the shameless sound licked her from the inside.

Blond bowed over brown. His slick teeth sliced into the neck. His surgeon's hands desperately gripped the animal's flanks as if holding tightly to a lover.

Edward groaned behind her.

_Curses. Poor Edward. Oh, how can I control myself…?_

Carlisle's lips were red.

_Don't look at him._

Carlisle was purring.

_Don't listen to him. _

Carlisle was burying his hands in her hair, and sucking her throat, and shredding her clothes on the forest floor.

_Don't fantasize about him. _

But it was hopeless. The hunt was hopeless.

The past several times Esme had gone hunting with Carlisle, it had happened in much the same way. Even through the friction, Edward had gone along with them. He was brave about it. He gave them a chance.

Then one morning, Edward simply refused to accompany them.

Esme knew why. Her thoughts were inappropriate at best when she watched the doctor drinking blood. Edward was wise to spare himself the stress in having to hear it.

But this now left her alone with Carlisle.

She knew it was bound to happen again one day, that they would find themselves alone out here. But now that it was happening again, she wished she had been better prepared.

Carlisle was so unaware, it was unbelievable. He would run by her side, being all graceful and blond and utterly _oblivious. _It made her scream inside.

He was disturbingly quiet the first morning they went out alone. He killed a bear while it slept, so there would be no fight. He used a strange little pocket-knife to cut the artery instead of his teeth, and he drank only half of what the beast had to offer. He was acting so strange.

Esme watched him between the trees and thickets of thorns, silent and creeping. The white fingers, the blood seeping in ruby rivulets down his palms – the sadistic ritual made holy by his crisp sincerity – the searing passion of Christ drawn over his somber profile.

He was gold. She was panting.

He made these sounds... an unpredictable symphony he carried with him, graced by the soft strains of his familiar tenor. Yet his voice was so _unfamiliar _at the same time.

The lilt became a hiss. The hum became a purr. The clearing of a throat became a full, draining growl.

He was not censoring himself as he usually would have. He was so...distracted.

Esme took full advantage of Carlisle's distraction. She killed and drank like a shameless savage in her skirt, keeping a fair and understood sort of distance from him while they moved through the woods together. This was not a teasing, happy, joint effort as it once had been. This was every man for himself.

It felt almost like...he was ignoring her.

She wanted to cry because of it.

But no, she could not think this way. He was just _very_ thirsty...

It was dark and gloomy on this early morning, with fog lying flat on the forest floor. Esme dragged her feet through the mist as she searched around for a place to bury the wasted carcass. Her heart gurgled for her attention, drowning in her neglect. She ignored it the same way Carlisle was ignoring her.

She swept the soft, cold dirt over the dead animals with the same daintiness she would have used while burying seeds in a garden. Her eyes blurred with venom and a feeling of cruel dissatisfaction as she glanced at Carlisle where he watched her from a few aching yards away. He was so ridiculously immune to camouflage out here – his hair looked nearly white in the darkness. His arms were crossed, his feet planted sturdily in the ground. There were trees all around him, perfectly suitable for leaning against, but he leaned against nothing.

His eyes were brassy now, but a kind of darkness still hovered over them, as if his thirst had not been fully sated.

She wanted to hold him down, and shove the blood into his lovely throat, forcing him to feel the same satisfaction she felt...

Her hands were shaking.

_Oh, terrible, cruel imagination._

Esme rose to her feet when her job was finished, and Carlisle began his stride in the direction of the house. Wordlessly, she followed him, and she tried not to look at him the entire time.

There was no precedent for this coldness that had fallen between them. In fact, what Esme failed to realize was that it wasn't even mind was caught in a sticky web of paranoia, and everything Carlisle might have done in her presence with his body language or his flickering gaze was calculated to the point of untruth.

He was not angry with her. He was not even displeased.

He was only concerned. That was all.

But for what he was concerned, she should never have to know.

This distance caved in on itself the closer they came to their home. Slowly, his eyes returned to their healthier tone, and his breathing grew less ragged. It was a fascinating transition – from vampire back into doctor. From savage to refined.

But just a tiny piece of the savage remained. She could see it now, if she looked carefully enough. It was an excruciating pencil-point of a detail, ingrained in his flawless countenance.

His eyes furrowed familiarly as they congregated by the front porch, his half-dark gaze dropping to Esme's knees in confusion.

"You have blood on your dress." He said this as if it were the most tragic thing to have happened all week. His voice was soft and heart-splitting, almost tearful – a fierce opposition to the grandiloquent growls he had composed not minutes ago.

"Oh," she mumbled with a cursory glance at the deep red bruises on her skirt.

Esme had made marked improvements since she'd been first introduced to the art of hunting, but a careless spill was bound to happen once in a blue moon. She must have been especially distracted this morning as well.

She would not have been so upset by this, but because Carlisle so clearly _was _upset, she suddenly felt like weeping herself.

She looked up to him, lips set bravely in a pitiful smile. "I've ruined it, haven't I?"

He opened his mouth to speak, but she promptly intruded upon his unspoken amends.

"Please... Don't bother buying me a new one."

His face was hurt, and she couldn't stand it for one more second, so she continued her hasty speech with a shrug. "I have so many dresses I can hardly fit any more into my wardrobe."

Now he looked impressively embarrassed. She wanted to say _something _that would make him smile – at least a little bit – but unwilling to risk further awkwardness, she decided it best if she kept her mouth closed from then on.

Carlisle averted his swift golden eyes as he opened the door to let her inside.

Then he _did_ smile – just a little bit – while Esme crumpled the ends of her skirt protectively in her hands, as if to hide the blood.

But unfortunately she never came to recognize this infinitesimal smile as he closed the door behind them, and she darted upstairs to change her dress.

Once safely inside her bedroom, Esme paused to take in her appearance, as was her habit after hunting. Not only did she wish to see just how horrendously torn up she had been in front of Carlisle, but she needed to see if she was still progressing; if her gaze had come any closer to sunrise from sunset.

Yanking her hand-held mirror off her night table, Esme studied the new flecks of gold in her eyes with a slightly warmer heart. They were so beautiful, those tiny studs of lemon within the cherry. They were looking brighter now, slowly but surely.

She wanted to show Carlisle.

She wanted him to take her chin between his hands and stare into her eyes and lavish her with his hushed praises.

Sighing, she hid the mirror back inside her drawer and began undressing.

"_She needs more distractions_."

The voice belonged to Edward – a soft warning uttered from just a floor below.

Esme froze with one foot in her stocking, poised on the edge of the bed. Her arms tingled and her joints stiffened at the realization that she was being discussed downstairs.

She kept her ears alert, waiting for any audible reply. But Carlisle didn't speak.

A door closed. A sigh. A breath.

Esme dressed quickly into a clean skirt and blouse, then opened the door to the hall to listen for any more voices.

The footsteps that headed from the foyer to the study were clearly Carlisle's, and suppressing a chill, she wrapped one of the woven throw blankets about her shoulders before descending the stairs.

If distractions were what they thought she needed, then distractions she would have.

Esme fetched her painting supplies from the ballroom floor and carried them into the sitting room. The windows were always the brightest in here, and with the sun now glowing brightly off the leaves outside, she could easily make the view into a subject worth painting.

Placing her easel strategically where the light best hit it, Esme stretched and washed a new board of canvas, and in a matter of minutes, she was ready to begin without so much as a primary sketch.

There was nothing like the untouched, slightly scratchy fabric of new canvas beneath the first brushstroke. Ah, yes, this was quite distracting.

Distracting from the worries of days ahead, from the thoughts that had plagued her over the past few nights, from the tentative footsteps approaching the room from behind her...

"You _are _in here. I was wondering what you were up to." His voice was deeper than normal. It worsened her chill.

He paused in the doorway, one hand against the frame. And if she had thought the process of painting to be distracting, it was nothing compared to just the sight of him standing there...with his collar unbuttoned to the very third button down – the button he always stopped at.

"Yes, I overheard Edward earlier," she blurted, flustered. "He said I need more distractions."

She turned back to the canvas, her hand now shaking lightly as she struggled to brush the oil in an even layer.

Carlisle sighed darkly. "You know Edward, Esme. He just talks."

"No, he's right," she insisted quietly, "I feel better when I'm distracted." She poured some turpentine into a jar and stirred the strong chemical absently with the end of her paintbrush. "I feel better when I'm painting."

She knew it was coming, but even so she could not help herself from shivering as Carlisle stepped up behind her, the soft spicy scent of a sacred forest swirling around her.

Keeping her breath shallow, she swept the paintbrush stubbornly over the bare sections of the canvas while he watched in silent, curious critique of her work.

The liquid swipe of the oil was painfully audible in the silence.

Esme chuckled nervously, "It's sometimes hard to keep an even layer." She repeated the unsuccessful brushstrokes several times, but every time the paint smeared and clumped in the wrong way.

"You're fingers are trembling," he boldly stated, his voice so low, she felt it shudder straight through her.

"It's so cold in the house," she mumbled her excuse, punctuating the remark with a tug of her makeshift shawl around her shoulders.

"I'll light a fire," he offered immediately, already too insistent for his own good.

"Oh..." Knowing it was useless to protest, she turned away.

"Wait right here," he said as he dashed out the door.

Through the window, she watched him as he soothed his pace into that of a human, bending at the waist to hoist a sizable bundle of firewood with his bare hands. There was nothing heroic about the simple gesture, she told herself vehemently. Nothing notably strapping about the way his muscles corded around his shoulders as he moved, nothing about the deep hunter green color of his shirt particularly flattering to his glowing white skin. Nothing remarkable about the way his blond hair was gently ruffled by the wind.

His eyes may have attracted many an early autumn honeybee, his breath may have awakened the ripely aged flowers, but he would not affect her. No, she would not let him affect her...

Moments later he reentered the sitting room, opened the grate, and let the logs tumble into the fireplace.

"The weather in these parts has always been a bit indecisive around this time of year. I think it's the lake," he explained as he struck a match and tossed it inside. "We'll have a sudden heat wave before winter hits, though, I can guarantee it."

He lowered himself to one knee, as if to propose to the fireplace. Esme watched him patiently shred pieces of newspaper and feed them to the flames. Again, she was struck by the strange nobility of his every action, no matter how insignificant it might be.

The jerk of his wrist, snapping the paper apart with merciful haste. The firm but gentle pressure of his fingers, preparing the piece he was about to tear next. The _rustle, snap, rip _sounds repeating in a steady rhythm.

His attentions to every strip of wilted paper unwittingly kindled a tightness in her lap as she studied him from a distance, her paintbrush slowly sliding down the front of the canvas, unaware.

Then he looked up, caught her gaze, and smiled – a ruggedly self-conscious twist of his tender pink lips.

"What _are_ you painting?"

Esme was impressively composed as she replied with a small smile of her own, "What I see out the window."

Carlisle's gaze moved to the brilliant view behind the glass, and as his smile broadened, she knew she had chosen the perfect subject.

Rising quickly to his feet, he considerately drew the curtains further back to widen the view through the window on either side.

"Does that help any?"

"Yes, thank you." Even though she hadn't enough room to paint it _all_ on her canvas now.

He caught her eye as she smiled appreciatively, and it was one of those frightfully significant moments where she could _feel _the connection between them – that split second drenched with such exhilarating purpose, becoming more familiar by the day.

Carlisle came to stand behind her again, and this time she was slightly more at ease with the nuance in her brushstrokes. Slowly, she adjusted to the rhythm of his breath, the protective pressure of his presence behind her.

"How do you paint trees?"

Esme wasn't expecting this kind of question from Carlisle at all. With the rich, languid manner in which he had chosen to say it, it sounded more like he was pleading for advice on how to touch someone's soul.

The sincerity behind his curiosity startled her quite pleasantly, but she was happy to share all that she knew.

"Well, you need to start with a proper base coat, so I would pick a color that best brings out the brightness in the tree I wanted to paint." She dipped her brush into the vivid yellow and applied a wash of the color on the top right corner of the canvas. "This tree in the corner catches the most sunlight, so I'll start with this yellow... then I'll build it up from there."

Carlisle must have been fairly fascinated, for he was utterly silent while she developed each leaf with painstaking points of paint. There must have been a thousand things he could have been doing instead...and yet he was here, watching her paint like it would be a chore to do anything else.

"See how pure the colors look now?"

He uttered a soft hum of amused agreement and leaned down slightly to look closer. "It looks perfect."

Esme flushed secretly at the untrue compliment, hiding a grin of embarrassment. "I don't know about _perfect, _but I hope it will look more realistic with some extra time."

He was almost jubilant. "Keep going."

How she longed to turn and see his face, to see the joyful brilliance of youth that surely brightened his features. She could hardly resist the hints he gave her through the telling tone of his voice.

But to see him now would push her poor heart well past its reachings.

"I would, but it needs to dry now, unfortunately," she giggled shyly as she dropped her paintbrush into the turpentine.

"Oh."

"Oil paintings take a fair amount of patience," she sighed, petting the side of the canvas, "but they're worth it in the end."

He was quietly thoughtful for a while as he looked back and forth between her corner of canvas and the window with a critical eye.

She watched in slight amazement as Carlisle's fingers suddenly reached around her to pick up the paintbrush where she had left it to dry. He was presenting it to her, encouraging her with a teasing stroke of the bristles against her resting knuckles.

"Start the red tree now."

His voice was so soft, it was almost inappropriate.

Despite Esme's discomfort with the color red in recent days, she was helpless to mix the oil with every scarlet pigment within reach. Patiently, she showed him the subtleties each color had when placed just so beside another. She explained the rules of complements and tones and values, and how to go about fixing the occasional mistake.

He drank in everything she had to say, and his interest only seemed to deepen the more she revealed. Nearly forty minutes passed with as much ease as a wave on the sand, and a good half of what they saw out the window now appeared on the canvas before them.

Esme thought it would have been impossible to work with Carlisle's eyes watching her every move, but she was pleasantly surprised to find his quiet interest and his genuine questions actually put her at a thrumming sort of ease. He was an inspiration more than a distraction.

And all the while, the glorious heat from his body wrapped around her – far, far tighter than the woven fabric that lay over her shoulders.

"Are you warm now?" he finally asked, the chivalrous question tainted by velvet husk.

She was indeed warm. Warm by his doing, though not by what he had _done _to make her that way. There was no way to tell him it was simply _him _and not his fire which had warmed her.

"Yes," she whispered honestly.

She felt the suggestion of his fingers around her shoulders, and before her body could tense at the touch, he had gently pulled the shawl away, leaving her bare skin unprotected.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

The mark of finality those two words branded upon the air nearly made her weep. She wanted him to continue the careful disrobing his fingers had begun. If he were to begin with her shawl, he should continue with the buttons in the back of her blouse, and the fastens in the side of her skirt...

"Do you want to try it?" she asked him breathily.

"Hm?" Even with the tiniest hum of a word, he managed to exude his intrigue.

_Undoing my buttons..._

"Painting the tree." She raised the paintbrush for him to take, and his hand hesitated slightly before accepting it.

"Are you certain? I may ruin a masterpiece."

She would have believed he was only teasing, but something in his voice was distressingly close to real concern.

Esme smiled warmly over her shoulder and encouraged his approach by stepping to the side.

"You won't ruin it," she assured, seizing the excuse to touch his hand as she guided him closer to the canvas. "Just...paint what you see."

It was rather disorienting for Esme to watch Carlisle as he intruded upon her artistic space, rather fascinating to witness how _new _he was to the nuanced process – as if he feared one off stroke would mar not only her artwork but her heart as well. If she was not mistaken, there was a quiver, slight and subtle, in _his _fingers now…

"Base coat first," she reminded him, nudging the orange pigment in suggestion.

His eyes flicked to where her hand lay on the palette, and she let her hand slip away, being sure to brush the edge of his back as she brought her arm around.

Carlisle exhaled with a shudder as he tentatively touched the tip of the paintbrush to the pigment, then to the canvas. Esme was an attentive onlooker, and it did not fail to pass her notice that he was striving to mimic _her_ precise motions. He had learned from _her. _

Her teeth gnawed her bottom lip in childish delight as he washed the left corner of canvas with slow strokes of the warm peach color she had subtly provided.

"Is that right?" he asked insecurely, unaware that she was struggling with the urge to kiss the very hand that painted.

"Yes, it's wonderful." _Everything your hand does is wonderful…_

His shoulders rested at her praise, and from behind him, she could see the sweet protuberance of one cheek as he smiled.

She hoped he could hear the grin in her voice. "Now add some of the details. More red, less oil."

He followed her instructions with a surprisingly natural finesse. He must have been paying very close attention to her rambling earlier. Every motion he made was exactly the way she would have done it. And he was almost _better_ at it than she had been.

It shouldn't have surprised her. A surgeon was naturally gifted with his hands.

Her eyes watered slightly at the thought.

"It keeps changing," he sighed. His discouragement was painfully endearing. "From the wind."

Esme nodded behind him with a patient smile. "An artist has to struggle to capture his surroundings sometimes. It's the challenge that makes it so engaging, though." She tucked a long lock of hair behind her ear. "At least _I _think it is."

Shyly, she looked up and found him smiling at the partially finished painting with muted pride.

Did he realize the beauty of what he saw had been created by _them?_

Her own heart jolted at the very idea that these precious pinpoints of green and gold and red were _their_ creation…

_Brrriiing._

The telephone only ever cried for Carlisle.

Esme was crying for him just as much, but in silence where he could never know.

The surgeon's fingers lingered on the paintbrush for a stubborn moment before he reluctantly set it down on the palette. His eyes pierced Esme's with apology, and they were stirring with something so regretful, so tortured...almost like anger.

But she deflected this gaze with forgiveness, ensuring him that there would be a time to return to these blazing colors on their canvas, to create artwork together.

"Excuse me," he murmured, his words deepened by the sadness of his smile, abandoning the magic of their art in favor of necessary societal duties.

And he left her to paint the rest of her trees alone.

His voice in the other room as he discussed various ailments over the telephone was uncharacteristically disgruntled. This pleased her.

He wanted to return to her. She could hear this in the tightness of his tone, in the rushed flavor of his words. This flattered her.

With every stroke of color she placed on that canvas, Esme could not seem to pry her eyes away from the top left corner of wonderful red and orange speckles, knowing Carlisle had placed each of them there with unnecessary care. This thrilled her.

A part of _him_ was in this painting, and she would be damned if she could not do the rest of it justice.

* * *

_**A/N: **__In the tenth chapter of __**Behind Stained Glass**__, you will find a collection of several love letters that Carlisle wrote but never sent to Esme. These are posted under "Chapter 10: Peacock Blue Ink."_


	29. How Lovely the Scarlet Path

**Chapter 29:**

**How Lovely the Scarlet Path**

* * *

It was the most beautiful piece of art she had ever laid eyes on.

The paint glowed and the half-dry oils shone, making the scene itself ethereal in a way she hadn't dreamed she could reproduce on canvas.

Esme knew her skills as an artist were finer for her breed, but this was not what made that painting of several autumn trees so entrancing.

It was that top left corner – the brilliant seduction of crisp apple red, brightened by a blushing orange beneath. The sprinkling of colors, each placed so carefully, with such purpose, such certain precision by the hand of her doctor.

She could not take her eyes away from it.

She could _be_ those colors. He could stroke _her,_ and be so precise with _her, _and make _her _come to life in a way she had never imagined possible.

Esme sunk onto the blank canvas of her bed and watched the painting from a distance. Those trees seemed to move within the frame, their leaves seemed to glitter in the oncoming dawn from her bedroom windows. The painting changed in the light, as all paintings did, but this one held a certain magic.

The moment the sun rose that morning, Esme knew something was stirring. Something in the balance of nature was askew; the hue of the sun itself was too red, too dim. The sky was hazy, and before it had begun, she sensed the storm in the distance. Even as a human, Esme had been able to sense a storm. They were palpable to those who paid attention to the changing expressions of the atmosphere.

It had begun normally enough for a Sunday. Carlisle stayed home, and though he was not working, he graciously answered the occasional telephone call for recommendations on various prescriptions. Esme listened with one ear to his calming lilt as he recited to his patients the names of drugs that had become all too familiar to her while eavesdropping on his conversations from down the hall.

Meanwhile, Edward had been thoroughly rapt with his project of creating a rather impressive tower out of two decks of playing cards on the dining room table.

"Listen to him," he groaned with a soft laugh, nudging his head in the direction of the doctor's study. "He doesn't stop. It's like the medical marathon."

Esme sniffed with laughter, hoping Carlisle was too distracted to hear her.

"He knows I'm talking about him," Edward confirmed with a smirk. "He doesn't care. He likes the attention."

Esme's brows scrunched together. "Alright, then."

"I asked him to come in after he's finished."

Her stomach tingled pleasantly. "Oh?"

Edward smiled gently in understanding. "We're trying to spend more time together. You know, like you suggested?"

Esme was slightly confused. "I did?"

He gave her a significant look, and she realized she _had _suggested that Edward spend more time with his father. Through her thoughts.

"Come here."

She sighed and rose from her chair to join Edward on the other end of the table. He handed her a Jack of Spades.

"Steady hands," he reminded as she carefully slid the card into place.

"Oh."

"Hah! You did it." He patted her arm proudly.

Esme beamed bashfully. "Well, there's no way I'm going to do the next tier."

"You give up too easily," he whispered with a note of challenge.

"No, I'm just smart enough to know when something won't turn out well."

"How do you know if you don't take the risk?" he asked, the innocent edge to his voice very disconcerting.

"Must we talk about 'risks,' dear Edward?"

He didn't respond, but his mouth had formed an impressively thin line as he concentrated on the placement of the next card to his tower.

After several attempts to complete a fifth tier, the stack finally slipped apart, and Edward's mood went from relatively pleasant to grouchy in a matter of seconds.

In hindsight, she probably should have taken the time to run off hunting with Edward that morning before the storm hit, but they had been rather lenient lately, as Esme proved she could better handle her thirst every day. Edward's eyes had been charred for several days already, and if that had not been the case, perhaps the edges of his normally admirable control would have been smoother. Yes, in hindsight, they should have hunted when they had the chance.

Esme left him to his brooding and painted for a while, despairing once again over her shortage of blue pigments. Interestingly enough, many of her whites were now missing, as well as a jar of linseed oil. Her paintings were dismal to put it conservatively – whether it was from lack of interest due to her melancholy mood or the fact that she was running low on her favorite colors, she couldn't quite tell. Some part of her supposed her muse was useless without Carlisle's lingering presence behind her. Regardless, no canvas she had produced that morning was particularly frame-worthy.

Sighing, she cleaned her brushes off and covered the canvas she had been working on before returning to her room.

There was one spot of paint on her thumb. That was all. Just one spot of pale pink pigment on the pad of her finger. But she decided it was enough of a reason to bathe.

It was strange the way she had never really felt the need to wash, the only exception being after a messy hunt. The vampire's body emitted no toxins or fluids, no sweat or odors of any sort. The venom was a sort of purifying substance that cleared over anything that could have soiled their flesh.

Yet, they still bathed. Carlisle did it every morning – she guessed because he wanted to feel human. At least, that was why _she_ did it.

She wondered if he heard the sounds of her clothes falling softly upon the floor as she undressed. She wondered if his arms tightened when he heard her gasp at the first hot droplet of water from the faucet. She wondered if he listened as aptly to her delicate ambiance as she did with his.

At one point, he placed the telephone into the cradle and exhaled into silence. She chose this moment to set her foot into the water.

There was no discreet motive in the back of her mind, no reason behind the first liquid tickle of her toe on the surface of the bath. She heard the wonderful sound of his breath catching… but it was only in her mind.

She let the water consume her body, the most intimate of all nature's embraces. It touched every part of her, leaving not a speck of space between the water and her body. It was everywhere. Over and under. Outside and inside.

How she wished Carlisle was the water.

She inhaled, and he exhaled.

Through the empty hallways, down the stairs, through three pairs of heavy wooden doors.

He whimpered so softly she had to assume the sound was her imagination.

Of course it was.

She shouldn't have let her eyes slip closed as she rested her head against the rim of the bathtub. She shouldn't have rubbed her ankle over the length of her calf or let her fingers trail carelessly over the scars on her neck.

All she saw was him. All she felt was _his_ hand sliding down her leg, and _his _fingers creeping behind her neck…

_The textured rush of his clothing collapsed onto the floor beside hers. _

_He set his foot into the water, and she tucked her legs back to make room for the rest of him. _

_His strong legs dipped down below the surface, bending at the knees, sloshing the water about so that the small waves splashed gently against her shoulders._

_The water lapped lovingly at his waist as he settled into the chill. His arms shivered, and she curled her hands around each of his elbows, tugging him closer. _

_Then his fingers were twisting in her curls, and his breath was slipping through her open lips._

"_Please, Esme…" he whispered, his words like warm sugar, melting on the tip of her tongue._

_He introduced her to the tender touch of his lips, and this introduction was not as chaste as she had thought it would be. It was a bold introduction, one that did not fear consequences; one that assumed the willingness of its recipient._

"_Please," he said the word once more. And she almost thought the word was real. She almost thought she felt the waves of its sound pulse against her cheek..._

But when she opened her eyes, no ivory torso blocked her view, no chiseled arms locked her in place. His breath was too far away to feather across her face. Only the water spoke to her. _He_ said nothing.

Disgraced by her terrible fantasies, Esme purified herself by sinking into her icy bath. She refused to resurface until the images fled her mind completely.

How wretched it was that she could not even bathe without falling victim to this curse.

She should have never set foot in the water.

All because of that pale pink thumb.

The color was gone by the time she stepped out of the bath. Her fingers were clean, but her heart was not. Her heart was soiled and mottled, filled with festering colors, and ripe with passions both pure and lush.

Whatever was she going to do with her heart?

Pondering the way she might go about properly punishing herself for such thoughts, Esme sulked through her empty bedroom, trying to ignore the angry twisting in the pit of her stomach.

Her eyes watered at the bitter unfairness of it all as she swiftly shrugged a light bathrobe around her body, about to walk back to her wardrobe.

At the shock of an intrusive scent, Esme froze into stillness by the window.

She caught the twinge of a most familiar aroma lingering in the air. It danced tauntingly around her nose, not really tangible at all. Just a tiny whiff of insignificant particles floating by.

Her eyes crinkled innocently as she struggled with the recollection, unable to put a name to this peculiar scent. It must have been so far away, for every time she tried to drink it in, it only skittered away, lost upon the air.

Esme stood before her vanity mirror, staring at her beautiful reflection.

Everything was foggy, and slowly turning pink…

A stampede of pounding footsteps charged up the stairs, and before she could react, Edward was in her room, panting heavily, eyes wide like saucers full of liquid soot. She whimpered in shock as he placed both hands on her shoulders, towering above her, and pushed her back into the wall.

"_Don't move_."

His voice would not have been heard if she'd been even a hair's breadth further from his face as he locked her in place, eyes unmoving as he stared down at her, but they were not focused on her gaze.

The terror did not seize her in one swoop, but instead it trickled down her back slowly, silently screeching against her spinal cord.

It _was _that scent. It was back again.

"Carlisle." Edward whispered the name against her forehead, and a flash of movement followed immediately, between her bedroom doors.

Suddenly he was there beside them in all of his blond authority, and his hand was like iron where it suddenly bruised her arm through the thin fabric of her robe.

"How many? _Edward, how many_?" he hissed urgently.

_Humans_, she thought, in a dizzy panic. They were approaching the house.

The youth bowed his neck so that his forehead brushed against Esme's, struggling as though his lips had been sewn shut. He shook his head, indicating that he could not speak, and Esme tried to inhale the suddenly bewitching fragrance.

Carlisle's hand crushed her nose and mouth, shutting the temptation out, and a familiar whine of protest broke through her withering throat.

"Dear Lord," he whispered, and suddenly he was behind her, his hand still covering her nose, his arm braced around her middle.

He was her own private prison again. Her freedom was gone.

Edward cowered against the glass door to her balcony, clutching his throat, still rolling his head back and forth vehemently as though trying to shake the voices of demons from his mind.

"I can't stand it!" he choked out and pressed himself against the windows like a lanky doll.

Esme's vision had just begun to redden when she felt her feet lift from the floor, and as the doctor moved with her between his arms, she watched as she approached the place where Edward stood with his hands over his ears, chin against his chest.

In one elegantly violent sweep of his arm, Carlisle tore the balcony door from its frame, hinges shrieking in protest and the glass shattering resonantly as they made their grand exit. He twisted Esme around in his arms so her face was smothered against his neck, seized her by the waist and jumped from the railing to the hard ground below. He ran the length of the yard in half a second, Edward rocketing ahead of them as they reached the dark fence of towering firs.

"_Don't breathe. Don't breathe. Don't breathe_,_" _Carlisle repeated the mantra into Esme's ear as he carried her through cold, rushing darkness.

Having no access to air was not an impediment to her, but the temptation to breathe was so repulsively tantalizing because she knew one little sniff would fill her with that unmatchable tonic.

She would have sold her soul twice over, just to have a taste of that scent. She had been so close to it, but now she was being transported faster and faster _away _from it. She struggled in agony as the injustice permeated her senseless mind, her limp arms flailing against the pressure of the wind, her legs kicking against his side in attempt to slow him to a halt.

He did not stop for her. He did not even slow down. In her anger, Esme took deep swallows of the sweet air around her, gathering up the stray morsels of her siren, even as Carlisle begged her not to breathe. The soft strains of his beautiful voice made him sound even more barbaric in her warped state of psyche. She only breathed deeper to spite him.

She snapped her sharp teeth against his neck in warning when he tried to increase the speed of his run. Her fingers clawed at his skin, and her throat throttled with the sounds of a demonic animal. Her venom was like thick, sweet foam, clotting between her sharp teeth.

Carlisle's words were like soft white mud, pushing into her ears that simply refused to make sense of what he tried to say.

"_Sweet Esme… Please… You cannot do this to me… God… Esme… Find yourself… Remember… I am still here with you… Esme…"_

She still kicked. She still shrieked. She still fought against him because he was nothing more than a man who wanted to destroy her only reason for living.

The thumping rhythm of something stronger than a heartbeat drummed against her chest. She was pressed so tightly to him, she could barely feel the friction between their bodies while he ran with her. It was like he had welded them together somehow. Like his hands were bolted to her back, and her chin was chained to his shoulder.

Slowly, his words began to sing their sense.

"_Hold on, dear Esme. We're nearly away… We're almost there. Don't leave me, Bright Eyes. I have you… Oh, I have you."_

The whirlpool of formidable scents began to change, mollify, and she cried out with the loss of the one stimulating aroma that was now miles behind her.

Even as Esme thought for certain the torture would never release her, it somehow did, always, in that same frantic threshold when her consciousness hit her like a slab of granite.

The scent was gone. The need was gone. She was back.

Esme wept apologetically against the fading teeth marks in Carlisle's lovely neck, and he recognized her sanity, finally slowing to rest in a clearing so dim she feared they had been running all night.

He let her cry senselessly for a good minute, walking slowly with her in his arms, as if he were patiently trying to lull a child to sleep. He searched for a safe place to put her down, eventually settling into a rough bed of leaves on one knee. He opened his arms to lay her gently against the wide base of a tree whose gnarly roots framed her protectively from the rest of the forest.

Though the canopy of leaves above them must have been several feet in thickness, a few sneaky raindrops made their way through the foliage to prickle cold and unwelcome on their shoulders.

Esme looked up at Carlisle where he hovered above her, and in his eyes she saw neither pity nor fear. Not even disapproval. Nothing with a name. He only looked down at her, his face almost dumbstruck, and his eyes just the same. His gaze was devoid of any recognizable emotion, but full of strange, tender fire. It killed her.

He was at a loss for words.

When she could no longer take the strength of his gaze, she bowed her head and stared wistfully at the patch of clover underneath her. She would have given anything to shrink down and live there in peace – in that tiny solar system of round crystal dewdrops clinging to the fragile webs on green leaves. It looked so tranquil down there, so insignificant, such a beautiful little place to escape.

"Will I never have control?" she whimpered hopelessly, tucking her bare, earth-stained legs against her chest to cover herself in her flimsy attire.

He did not nod or shake his head. His lips moved but his eyes did not deviate from their fixed point on her face as he spoke quietly, "You will if you have faith."

She sobbed dryly, letting her neck fall loosely back against the tree. She closed her eyes and tried to wish it all away, but something stung her deep inside, telling her the mess had not even begun.

"Faith, Carlisle?" She shivered as his name worked loose from her lips. "Faith in what?" She met his eyes, and found his face suddenly filled with wisdom and sympathy.

"Yourself," he answered, and it was a careful answer – one he knew she wanted to hear. There would have been a far more fitting reply to this question, but it was too sensitive to mention. He knew this.

Esme saw that alternate answer wavering behind Carlisle's eyes.

"I don't understand..." She bit her tongue in frustration, hands tangling in her hair. "What am I doing _wrong_?"

"Nothing," he interjected with haste, his voice strong. "You have done no wrong thus far, Esme. This is how you must cope. Resistance will not always be within your immediate control. You have..."

She stared at him with begging eyes, and he closed his lips, unable to continue the words she knew he wanted to say.

_You have me to keep you in your place. _

But that would not always be the case. Even he must have known that.

Then how in the world did he manage to defeat the desire all on his own? She needed to know.

"_You_ did it," she said, unaware of how harsh and accusatory her tone was.

He breathed in a dark, deep breath and swallowed hard. She saw it in his eyes – his natural defense, his misunderstood revulsion with himself. People used this against him because he was an exception to every rule of control. He was an anomaly who had to be _accepted _by everyone. Even her.

"How did you manage?" she demanded in a passionless voice. "You had _no one._"

The reminder stung him, and she pitied him for a moment as he winced and pulled his eyes away, his profile sharp.

"That isn't true," he whispered vaguely, wisps of words so hurt that she flinched.

There was always _One Other _with Carlisle. She should have remembered this.

It wasn't fair that Carlisle should have God's mercy while the rest of them were somehow deemed unworthy subordinates, trailing along behind to pick up the dust of every trial in their eyes. And even while in the back of her heart she knew this was untrue, there was always a deepening doubt that such holy presence was promised to her as well.

"I…I'm so…_so lost_," she stammered unthinkingly, thrashing one fist against the tree's root in a puerile temper.

She listened as Carlisle moved closer to her, and she breathed him in heavily, the rich cleanliness of his scent anointing her lungs.

She did not dare open her eyes, but waited with bated breath until he finally made contact, and his hand captured hers, firm and warm.

Esme sighed, her lungs sinking in as profuse relief poured forth from her dry lips. The lush warmth from his grasp crept like hot liquid up her arm and settled inside her chest, loosening the ugly little knots of every sin.

This was not the end of the world. She would pull through this.

Not one of his fingers moved as he held her still – each one was locked soundly in place, fastening her hand inside of his with a determined security that was utterly thrilling. He held her so tightly, for such a long time that an impossible pulse had birthed between their hands.

"You are not lost," his voice whispered soundly from above her. "I'm here, Esme." His words sounded vaguely like something God might have said, but she could hear clearly the accent that distinguished her childhood doctor.

At long last her eyelids fluttered open to find his vigilant gaze fixed upon her still, only now he was closer, and perhaps a bit more handsome.

"You're here, and I'm here," he said, and his pale pink lips gently quirked into what was just nearly a smile. "And we're going to be fine."

His fingers tightened reassuringly around her hand for a second, and the quivering in her chest seemed to settle reluctantly with each passing second.

_They were going to be fine... _

But then her brow furrowed. There was still a missing piece.

"Edward," she stated in a weak, scratchy voice.

"He's gone further north," Carlisle informed her with a slight tilt of his head in the direction. "He'll find us on his way back."

His eyes fell onto her face. And in this strange, strangled moment, it was like every spark of emotion he had tried to keep trapped inside came pouring through in a vast disarray of colors in his gaze.

Esme's heart seized up within her chest as Carlisle reached down and took her chin into his hand. Harsh was the motive, but gentle was the action.

His eyes were positively leaking hidden feelings – forces of midnight and starlit gold, and deep drops of tender bronze. His breath was heavy, but his hand remained still, like a cup of warm, smooth stone beneath her jaw.

He swallowed. He spoke.

"You worry for him so much, Esme."

"So do you," she whispered, simply confirming what she saw so clearly in his fatherly eyes.

Carlisle looked as if he were being burned slowly from the inside out. He bowed his head in one long nod and let his hand slip away from her chin.

A tiny bit of the fire that burned him must have worked its way into her veins.

Esme jolted as an agitated crackle of thunder sounded overhead, and the rain began to fall more steadily through the leaves above them.

Carlisle's eyes closed softly as the clear droplets began to land one by one in his hair. Esme at once rose anxiously off her back to squint at the sparse window of sky above them, still clutching his hand possessively where he held her.

"The clouds are moving in that direction," she pointed with her free hand. "If we move in the opposite way we can avoid the rain."

She started to rise to her feet but he kept her firmly in place with that single hand.

"We'll be safest here. The air is clear here, and the rain will help it stay that way. We don't know what's out there, Esme," he whispered, his eyes sparkling with warning.

"But Edward..."

"He'll come to us." But the way Carlisle said this was not completely certain. Esme heard the hint of doubt, and it made her tremble. "Please." He pulled on her hand. "I don't want to us to lose each other."

Good Lord, he was practically pleading with her.

Esme settled obediently back into her place, imperceptibly touched by his words.

_I don't want us to lose each other. _

Carlisle's eyes fell downcast once again as the rain began to fall in misty sheets, and Esme shivered in dread, knowing their situation was sealed as inescapable.

As with any perfect storm, there came a definitive moment when the clouds ceased their teasing and the rain finally poured down around them in a furious monsoon that would have been more appropriate for an Amazonian summer. Carlisle appeared all too unaffected by the sudden downpour, even as his hair was soaked to a melancholy brass, and the perfect Chartres-blue linen of his vest was drenched to a somber midnight, over which his face was the shining white moon.

He shook his head sullenly and absently loosened the necktie from around his collar with one hand to toss it lazily aside. The fairest bit of impatience that colored his demeanor with the gesture shocked her a bit. He was in rare form when he made that expression, and although it did not frighten her, Esme found herself mildly bothered by it.

He could have been upset with Edward, or he could have been upset with _her_. He most likely would never admit to being upset with either of them if he was, and this made her more nervous.

But then… he could have simply been upset with _himself. _

Willing to bring him back, she pulled on Carlisle's hand with a needy sigh, and his free palm indulgently smothered her hand between both of his. Her heart swelled with the suddenly generous propinquity of their bodies as he settled as close as possible without touching any more than her hand.

It was lucky that no drop in temperature could have harmed her body, but the invasive chill of the heavy rain was still vastly uncomfortable. The indecent manner in which the fine fabric of her robe clung to her body while wet only added to her discomfort, leaving no guesses as to the glaring lack of coverage she wore underneath.

Had the circumstances been normal, Esme would have been rightly embarrassed by her immodesty, most especially because she was sitting beside the very man she desired. Thank heavens he was a doctor who was no doubt quite familiar with the female body in every variety by now. She had reasonably nothing to be ashamed of. Nevertheless, she would have preferred _not_ to have been several thin steps above nude in the middle of the forest in a thunderstorm with Doctor Cullen staring down at her.

Fate certainly had a sick sense of humor.

As if her thoughts had somehow broadcasted her concern, she felt his hands tense considerably around hers, and he smoothly averted his eyes. The devious path of the raindrops down her front spurred her to shift awkwardly, in attempt to keep one sleeve of her robe from inevitably slipping past her shoulder.

Carlisle took notice to her delicate struggle and gently released her hand with a faint noise of apology before she could discourage the loss of contact. Carefully keeping his eyes away, he swiftly plucked the buttons of his sweater vest and offered her the soaked article of slightly over-sized clothing to cover herself with something more substantial.

She accepted it, and with a cognitive blush, fitted the thick blue fabric snugly about her chest, not bothering to button it back up. Her skin seemed to tingle beneath the twill, still charged with his subtle body heat. Esme shyly murmured her thanks, to which Carlisle nodded once and turned partly away. She looked curiously up into his face and found his brow furrowed in distress, as though the rain that now assailed his shoulders caused him splitting pain.

Rather guiltily, she allowed her eyes to travel the appealing contours of his torso, admiring how the powder blue cotton of his shirt sleeves appeared pasted to his arms, to his sides, to his stomach. Her heart was smeared with velvet as her gaze wonderingly scrutinized the vulgar appeal of every artful definition of lean muscle that rested beneath the wilted fabric. His lungs forced a lovely rise and fall to his chest, cause and effect to the placid flex of yielding flesh. And she could so clearly _see _the subtleties in the structure of his torso, the strange sort of poise to the way he held himself upright, calm but prepared, ready for anything...

A rushing stream of intense heat stroked a warm line straight down the center of her body, in a ruthless course toward her lap. She caught her gasp before it flittered off her lips, at once aware that the flooding beneath her folded legs was not only composed of rainwater.

She promptly drew her knees together as if to protect herself against the turbulent sensation, desperately hoping that she had not given herself away by her sweetening scent.

In a stifling moment of horror, she watched as his hand slowly rose to his lips, covering his nose and mouth in scandalized disbelief. Esme gave a soft whimper of mortification and tried to cower out of view, utterly and dismally and irreversibly humiliated by her atrocious reaction.

Something had to happen to her. Now. Anything.

As if this day could not get any more unpredictable, Carlisle promptly hoisted her from her place in the marshy ground and cradled her tightly in his arms as he began a brisk stride in the opposite direction of the storm.

"The scent of blood lingers," he informed her hastily, and her lips fell open in surprise. "I can't tell if it's human or not. It's still very far away, but we should move on," he added warily.

Esme took a deep inhale of the air around them and, sure enough, found the faintest aromas of sweet, unmistakable human blood.

Her body stiffened then melted in hearty relief. "The scent of...blood…" she repeated dimly for confirmation. She breathed out raggedly as Carlisle increased his pace, dodging fallen branches and hurdling over raised roots.

He stared down at her quickly in concern and she flinched. "I should have known better than to stop so soon," he muttered to himself, his eyes devoted to the path ahead. "We need to find _something _to feed on out here…"

She gulped at the strange dimension his behavior had taken and clung tightly to his shoulders while he rushed forward, the rain slowly tapering the further along he went.

It occurred to her then that he had not _needed _to carry her anywhere. She was in no position to be offered assistance, especially the kind that suggested she was unable to walk on her own two feet, which would never again be the case. Yet he made it a recent habit to bear her aloft for even the littlest distance, as if she were some small but important possession he must carry upon his person everywhere he went. Perhaps he was still concerned that she may suddenly run off should the scent return…

If he was hoping to minimize her discomfort in having to walk about in a flimsy robe in the rain, he was gravely mistaken that carrying her was a more suitable alternative.

But Esme could not find it in her to be offended in the slightest when she was so damnably thrilled. Mixed with her utter terror that something horrible might soon be bound to happen, it was twice as intense.

She was in _his arms._

For once, entirely awake and alive, in his arms.

Her fingers curled ever so gingerly around the back of his neck, daring herself to touch the damp golden curls of his hair without him noticing. She took in generous breaths of his peppermint and cider fragrance, willing her natural reactions to cooperate more cautiously for her given position. The lightness of her body against his, the weightless vulnerability was only heightened by the few thin layers of drenched fabric separating their flesh. It was with immense willpower that she wrestled the unforgiving claws of arousal there in his arms. She did spare herself to shiver, but it was subtle enough that he did not realize. At least she thought he did not.

Her nostrils tingled slightly with another familiar scent whose source was unmistakable, and somewhere in the relative vicinity.

Perhaps with a small motivation to impress the doctor, she whispered eagerly, "Edward is close by."

She should not have said anything.

Carlisle smiled faintly in anxious relief as he caught the scent and hurried ahead.

"I told you we would find him." Despite the sureness of his tone, Esme could not help but think Carlisle was trying to convince himself of something he did not truly believe. But he was smiling, softly but beautifully down at her, his gaze shining with tentative hope.

She stared up at him, unable to mask the longing in her eyes. Her breath was shallow through her parted lips, and his lungs were a force to be reckoned with against her side.

He had stopped running. He had stopped walking. In fact, she noticed, he was completely still.

"I suppose I can...put you down now..." he spoke, more to himself than to her, his voice raspy.

But he still did not move.

Esme didn't dare fidget for fear that Carlisle would be awakened from his reverie. God forbid he should actually carry out what he had so softly intended to do.

Still, he did not move.

For that moment, she did not blame him. Esme was hard-pressed to recall anything that could rival the exquisiteness of the damp fabric and hard flesh confinement offered by this proximity.

The awkward balance between a gentle warmth and a startling chill, droplets of rain crawling seductively down their arms, between their bodies, the moisture caught in the spaces between their fingers and in the corners of their lips…

Five fingers, filled with instinct, clutched at his collar. His entire body tightened.

Then he caved.

"Oh..." Esme uttered a petite gasp at the delightful drop in gravity as his arms finally gave way beneath her.

Her fingers brushed along the back of his neck as she brought her arm around, being lowered slowly to the ground. Carlisle's eyes fluttered strangely as her hand passed innocently over his damp chest, their fierce golden tone set askew by a fleeting splash of darkness.

"We should circle the area to alert Edward to our presence," he proposed without so much as a glance away from her face. He was still so unsettlingly _close_ to her.

"Will he hear our thoughts?" she whispered, even though it was foolish to be keeping secrets from the trees.

"Either that or he'll catch our scents. He can't be far." Finally tearing his eyes away, Carlisle swallowed heavily and looked around. "Let's start in this direction." He took one step away from her, then paused as if someone had shot an arrow straight into his back.

He turned around, eyes wide. "Stay close to me."

It was an order, chilling but faint. Esme obeyed with a single step forward, leaving no more than a handful of inches between them.

"Here..." He took her hand and pressed it against his side. "Don't let go."

It was the most beautiful command he had ever given her.

She nodded with wide eyes, clutching the fabric of his shirt tightly to confirm her devotion to that spot. He eased somewhat and took a tentative step away from her. She kept her hold on him, passing the test.

He walked onward, and Esme clung faithfully, grateful for the contact.

"I'm thirsty." The words spilled from her lips without her mind's consent. She hadn't even been aware of her need to share this with him.

The muscles beneath her hand grew tense at her sudden confession, and Carlisle shot her a worried glance.

"We'll hunt properly as soon as we're reunited with Edward. I promise."

She sighed, falling into a comfortable pace with his stride, curling her free fingers absently around the soft ends of his vest she still wore. It had started to dry a bit, regaining some of its rich cerulean color as she circled each small button with her fingertip.

As Carlisle dragged her along with him, the fabric would sometimes slip over her shoulders, and she would have to quickly clutch it together again.

It was somewhat disconcerting to realize just how much larger his chest was in comparison with hers…

Her stomach twisted, and she felt dreadfully ill.

"Carlisle…" Again, his name seemed to come straight from her lips, but not from her mind.

He halted and faced her, grasping her elbow. "You need blood now?"

She nodded hastily, and another whine broke free from her throat.

"Alright," he gave in, tugging her along with him in the other direction. "We'll find something. Just hold on. Don't let go of me."

The fire building in her throat felt all but unquenchable. He didn't realize how strong it was while he was in control. He didn't realize that some of this fire was dripping down her throat and settling in the pit of her stomach, every time he pulled her closer.

His breath was hot on her forehead and his scent was impossible. His hands felt so large and so wonderful and at the same time they were like shackles… and she didn't know why.

She wanted this, didn't she? She wanted to be close to Carlisle. To be safe in the fortress his presence provided, to be linked to him, to be connected to him.

Yet, she was itching to go so much _faster_, knowing her own two legs bore better blessing than his at this time. But she couldn't. She couldn't leave him.

Carlisle had promised her blood, and she only needed to wait a little longer – just a minute until they found something. She trusted him, just as he trusted her to stay by his side.

But there was a way to break this trust. Only a vampire could fall victim to the graceful plummet of such reason.

Up to this point, they had not _truly _been vampires.

The one thing that made them monsters had never been reconciled.

It was not quite clear to Esme when the smooth course of events had shifted. But they had, somehow, and they changed so erratically that she hadn't remembered the moments between the time she held Carlisle's arm and the next instant she was rushing into the woods, away from him...

She could not have him anyway. But she _could _have her real reason for existing.

A tiny voice deep inside begged her to throw herself after him, to never let him leave her sight. Something weak and pitiful was warning her that even a minute apart from him could ruin her. But as fate often fails, she ignored the distant sting.

It wouldn't have been entirely accurate to say that she was scared, but there was some element akin to fear in the recesses of her gut as she inhaled the bouquet of bountiful aromas that wafted her way. Continuously, the scent blasted her in waves, more and more enticing, and less and less logical the nearer it came to her dwelling place.

The sounds of distant male voices arguing not so far away penetrated her reeling mind. They were familiar, but somehow just as foreign. She did not care to look back and see whose they were.

She thought vaguely of that blond doctor who had tried to protect her. She remembered that he had told her to stay with him, no matter what might happen, but she couldn't remember why. Then she couldn't remember why she was out in the middle of the wet forest to begin with...

Her lungs sucked in that heavenly scent, and an appetite that had forever been dormant awoke in her throat with an untouchable vengeance. Her stream of thoughts curdled like sour milk, and nothing really made much sense other than that single scent.

His arms faithfully clamped her from behind.

They were strong and impenetrable, steeling her against his chest. She broke away from them so easily.

His frantic voice was a watery drone, barely touching her ears. She ignored it just as easily.

Esme shook the weightless shackles of her faithful prison and pranced away from those arms with a gleeful giggle, elated that her powers would lead her straight to the source of that spellbinding entity.

An enchanting sparkle of red tainted her vision as she sped off through the forest in ecstasy, and every tree bore the fruit of ripe red apples, every pebble under her feet was a precious ruby. Her path had been paved for her with painted red arrows, a whimsical splash of pink lightning to light her way. She scampered with ease over every obstacle in her path, cavorting about like a scarlet-winged angel in search of her lover's song.

And she found it, sooner than she'd expected, waiting for her in the form of a cherub-faced child with bright rosy cheeks full of the fresh, blazing blood of youth.

* * *

_**A/N:**__ To read this entire chapter from Carlisle's perspective, you can visit "Chapter 11: If Only," in __**Behind Stained Glass.**_


	30. Iniquity

**Chapter 30:**

**Iniquity**

* * *

_"The sleep of reason produces monsters." – __Francisco José de Goya y Lucientes_

******-}0{-**

When there is a terrible, repetitive squeaking in the ear, one seeks relief from the noise. When something is on fire, one wants to put it out with water, as quickly as possible. When one has an itch, one must scratch it.

Just as all these stand true, when a vampire is thirsty, she must consume blood. All things are harnessed – air, matter, energy – and fueled toward this gem in the dark world. Even if it is only a single drop, it has the power to bring kingdoms crashing down – kingdoms ruled by thirst.

Esme had broken many commandments. But the one she had never dreamed of breaking had been broken by her hand in one night.

It was amazing how this sin had felt nothing like she'd imagined it would feel. She had not only been consumed by ecstasy, but something else. It was a bright, burning anger. A mountain of regret for everything she had ever despised in both her humanity and her death.

Everything bottled up from the alpha to the omega came tumbling out in raging rapids of energy. Her fantasies, her dreams, her hopes, her lust. Everything expelled itself in a ripe explosion of heat and terror.

She had remembered Charles. For that split second when she bit the skin and tasted the blood. And it was him she was sucking the life from. Because behind the haze of memories and hellish wounds and lost sense, Charles was the reason she was this – this monster. For that one moment, It was everything he had done to her that she was sending into the fiery pits of her throat. It had felt like such a worthy cause, such a fine, triumphant moment of sweet revenge.

But every sin began with triumph and ended with torture.

God sent Carlisle to her in the right moment. His arms were there; he had captured her, just in time... But even he could not save her from the frenzy.

There had been violent snarls and vicious clawing and insincere threats. But she did not remember any of them.

Her hair was now a dripping mess of tangles, and her robe was now tattered from the effort it had taken her counterpart to drag her away from the body. But she still didn't look like a vampire gone wild – she looked helpless, lost, and now terrified.

Her eyes finally began to roll about in their stiffened sockets, taking in the dark interior surroundings as though she had never seen any of them before. The first thing they rested on was Carlisle's face as he tenderly cradled the side of her cheek in his hand. Her body twisted and mangled and drenched in the waste of a rainstorm, she lay limp and tortured in his lap as he held her with a corrupting care – a reverse Pieta.

Her gaze was forced to follow the aquiline antiquity of his handsome profile, dripping with diamond-like droplets of rainwater, as he urged her to stay focused on his blazing, Christ-like eyes. It looked like he had been crying.

They were sprawled on the floor, by the fire. The glow from the flames was outshone by the occasional flicker of lightning – residue from the storm outside and inside. Carlisle's silhouette blocked out the fire itself, but his face was so clear to her under the shimmer of that deep orange glow surrounding him. He was all she could truly see anymore.

Her voice was raspy and abused when she tried to say his name, but he hushed her fervently, his arms rocking her in a soft obsessive pattern, as though trying to calm a weeping infant in front of the dying fire.

"I'm here, Esme. Right here. I have you." His voice was so soothing by comparison, she felt actual guilt for letting it soak inside her eardrums.

Had it all been a nightmare? She wondered, then.

Oh, but it had not.

Carlisle's clothes were tattered – the distinct shred of her own fingernails marked his tunic, sliced careless crisscrossing lacerations through his shirt on both sides, front and back.

Her robe was torn in the worst of places, leaving her all but bare-breasted in the doctor's arms. Her hair was streaked with the fertile odor of darkened earth, the poison perfection of a child's blood that was still warm...

She was a murderer. She was worse than the man who had abused her. She was worse than the worst of all sinners. She had committed a crime that deserved no forgiveness.

Though this embrace had been something she'd longed for since before she could remember, she did not deserve to lie in Carlisle's unsoiled arms.

Her hands covered her eyes in a shame that was so unlike the shame she had known in her humanity. She had been possessed by the devil himself; taken the life of an innocent orphan for her own sadistic gratification. And the worst part was, she'd had no choice, no recollection of a conscious decision ever made in her head. It had happened without her consent, the consequences brutally thrust upon her when she was awakened from her feral coma.

The sounds of Carlisle's sweet, sweet lilt faded in her perfected ears. She did not deserve to hear him speak.

She deserved nothing but her own death now.

Let her be torn from this world; let a waiting audience of demons rip her to shreds and make her their celebratory harlot. Let the mighty fist of God break through the heavens and crush her to dust. These were the things she deserved.

It angered her to hear the words of comfort and forgiveness spilling from Carlisle's untainted lips. The never-ending spiritual crusade of his purity was never before such a repugnant weapon against her. The wild whiteness of his innocence burned her like magnesium lit with a lone match, and she only wished he would stop this, stop everything... Couldn't he see the brilliant torch he held to her just by speaking?

She crawled dejectedly out of his lap and melted limply on the cold, wet floor. Her crazed mind taunted her with the barely tangible memories of blood and careless lust. She sunk into silence, into her own personal dungeon, ignoring the whispered cries of her beloved as he begged her to forgive herself... for he had already forgiven her.

The rain was heavy in her heart and on the grass outside. But the rain did not give life. It was an arid, acid rain. Inside of her, everything was dying. Everything she once was, once believed she could be - it was all gone, and she feared it would never come back to her.

Edward was gone, and she was gone, and soon Carlisle would be gone. Before she knew it, God would be gone.

God may have been gone already.

* * *

_**A/N:** This is obviously quite a pivotal moment for Esme - she has fallen hard, and she must now suffer the consequences of her mistake. Any thoughts about how I have chosen to portray this moment for Esme? Was it too powerful, or not powerful enough? _


	31. Untouchables

**Chapter 31:**

**Untouchables**

* * *

In rising from the floor, she knew her eyes would never see as they did before. Her nose would never smell as it did before. Her lips would never speak as they did before. And her tongue, surely, would never taste as it did before.

His arm brushed hers. His skin was moist and even and warm. Almost like sweat. Almost like... he was human.

She dragged herself over the cold tiles until she found the carpet, and into the fibers, she sighed. She released all she had remembered and forgotten, and every transgression tripped from her clutching fingers.

"Look at me," he sobbed. "Please, look at me."

But she could not.

He swiped the plush plane of one palm over her bare shoulder, and she shuddered at his touch.

Why did he dare to rub his goodness onto her skin? Why did he share his perfection with her through this intentional brush of open fingers?

Why was he so sad?

He was perfect.

Why were they here? On the floor, in the dark, all alone? Why was he on hands and knees behind her, following her in her sluggish journey toward nowhere?

Why did he even bother?

"Esme," he murmured, deep and distraught. "Come back to me."

And this made her cry.

******-}0{-**

He carried her somewhere, and laid her down someplace soft. He covered her with something softer, and he stayed with her until the rain dried out and the ache turned numb.

She couldn't concentrate on more than the air and the sound... but she saw that his eyes never left hers. She saw that his face was pulled taut by tragedy, and she felt the tips of his fingers flood her hair.

One of those fingers settled on her cheek. There, he brushed away a single tear of his imagination from the velvet dip beneath her eye, and she felt whole again – for just one flash of a second. Then it crashed inside of her heart.

She thought he would leave after that, but he didn't.

He just stayed there, and he watched her. He spoke to her in dim, gauzy words that still made little sense to her.

Sometimes he said the word "please." It was his new favorite word to say. He whispered it, low and humble. He sobbed it, hard and choking. He murmured it, seductive and passionate.

He looked so broken. His eyes were like cracked butterscotch candies – once sweet, now shattered. His jaw was trembling and his shoulders were tense. His inner torture was written in punctured paragraphs on his chest. She could see every ache, could feel every strain. He breathed, strong and defiant, and the air shuddered inside of him. The etchings of guilt were scratched into his marble face, twisting in his throat.

He was in a war with his spirit, but she could not see why.

Sometimes he said the word "God." And it was neither a name or a plea. It was just a word.

He said it because he could think of nothing else to say.

He had stopped saying her name.

She missed the way he said her name. She missed it terribly.

The shining light of his voice when he called her by her given name or called her "Bright Eyes" had faded into shadow the more time they spent this way – detached by the dreadful iniquity she had been born to face. She missed the pleasant soreness she used to feel in her chest when he called for her, when he whispered to her, when he laughed with her.

The times they'd spent together had seemed so petty before the forty hour flood. Now she longed to have them back. She and Carlisle seemed to be lost together, floating down an endless stream – but they were fools for not realizing the water was shallow enough to wade in.

At some point in time, the waters let up and Esme began to wade alone. She hated the coldness that wept around her ankles, and the wet gurgle of waves against her heels. But it had to be done.

_He _insisted.

He tried to touch her, but she carefully ducked out of the way. She did not want to mar his purity.

She swam away for his own good...but still she longed for him.

What would it be like to accept the touch he offered? Would he smother her in his light? Would he smite her with his forgiveness? Would he bring her tumbling down into the grace of his arms and hold her against his heart and make her feel complete again?

Would this be a miracle or a disaster?

He let her close the door between them, but those waters still spilled between the cracks.

He was still there.

Sometimes she opened the door and tried to face him, but like a coward, she could not speak.

Esme wanted this. To rub an ancient lamp with her soiled hands make three specific wishes: Carlisle. Carlisle. Carlisle.

She missed saying _his_ name. She missed it terribly.

Her tongue was tempted to say it out loud whenever she heard him approach. But she always held back, feeling herself unworthy to speak to such sacredness.

The pedestal on which she had placed him since the second she saw his face had grown to preposterous heights in the private arena of her overworked mind.

He was nothing short of a saint in her eyes...since the accident.

Because Esme now had the misfortune of knowing just how impossibly overpowering blood-lust was for their kind. To believe that Carlisle Cullen had gone through such painstaking lengths to abstain from what she now considered a necessity was _thrillingly frustrating_.

He made her realize with every innocent glance in her direction just how inferior her control was. And every time she was in his presence she was made more aware of how great a chasm there existed between them morally. He was angelic and she was demonic.

Something had gone wrong in her transformation from mortal to immortal. Carlisle's changing had been a blessing of epic purpose. Hers had been a terror, a toxic mishap, a mutant corruption of Carlisle's Eucharistic venom. How could something as monstrous as her have been born from something so holy? How could pure perfection bear the cursed embryo of _imperfection_?

Why must his blessed venom twist and tingle in her veins when she was unworthy? Why must his _son _even shame her with his control? Surely the first born from Carlisle's bite was graced with greater strength than she had been.

Edward had not returned since the accident, and Esme had stopped counting the days since she had last seen him. Her worry for him carried on even though she knew he was indestructible. She was afraid that he had run away all because of her. And why should he want to continue living under the same roof as a murderer? She was like a terrible disease, and he had every right to flee from the sight of her.

Now she was left here, alone in this monstrous mansion, forced to face her doctor in this burning bath of endless shame. She watched the brutal beauty of Carlisle's every movement, with her hands folded neatly over the warmest place in her lap from across the room, for she was terrified that he should be near her pest-house of a body. She was consumed with a bitter plague, and she refused to contaminate his gentle heart.

Carlisle always offered her a place closer to him, regardless of her insipid self-torture. He pulled on her arms and pressed his hands to her cheeks, shaking with passion and mercy, but no matter how many times he pleaded with her to take her place by his side once more, she would not accept his invitations.

There was a bitter longing burning in her heart as she watched him clean up the shards of glass on her bedroom balcony. She told him she should be the one to do it; she pushed his shoulder and threw a fit and sobbed a little, but he insisted on fixing what _he _had broken.

But they both knew that he would not have broken it if it hadn't been for her...

He touched the bits of glass with his tender fingers, picking them up one by one and making them disappear. He righted the wrongs and made everything look as good as new. But they both knew it was never going to be _good as new. _

Esme only hoped Carlisle could see, without words, that it was not pride which kept her prisoner to her silence, but her own blistering shame. She was in no way this man's equal, and she surely never would be – even if he insisted on pretending.

She promised herself that she could look, but never touch.

So she tucked her fingers between her palms and kept her hands to herself. She made a hobby of scrubbing uselessly at the sin that was forever engraved in her stone flesh. Every morning, every afternoon, every evening. In the middle of the nights that never seemed to end.

She wondered if he noticed.

He had taken to reading the Bible much more often.

She wondered if it had something to do with her.

She wanted to know all of these things, and knowing that this was never going to be possible left her broken and hopeless. She wanted all of him to herself. She wanted to belong to him entirely.

She wanted to be the reason for _his _existence.

Bur he would never want her when she was so much _less _than him.

She had to leave the room when just looking at him made her thoughts turn dark.

He had no idea what he did to her heart, to her thoughts. He would go on about his business, lighting candles and flipping pages and writing little notes to himself and murmuring prayers when he thought she was out of earshot. All of his eccentricities were just as exquisite as they always had been. He was oblivious to her bitter infatuation, and it was better that way. It should stay that way forever, lest he hear the sinfulness of her every thought.

She would see that his purity remained just as bright, just as untouched. Even if it meant she could never touch him again.

Carlisle grew more restless by the day.

Sometimes she heard him in the very early hours of morning. In the cellar, in the study. He broke something – a sonorous blast of stone and glass – either accidental or in a fit of misplaced rage. She never knew.

He had stopped going to the hospital altogether. He was distraught because of Edward, and he must have been furious with _her, _for she was the reason the boy had left.

But Carlisle showed no shimmer of that anger to Esme's sorry eyes. He was angry about _something… _She could hear him, though he never voiced his feelings out loud. She could hear the load of his repressed rage drumming against his chest, yet he did _nothing _to reveal it.

He asked for her to speak, but how could she when he would not speak for himself?

With this insufferable silence between them, Esme felt in more desperate need for company than ever. While she _craved_ Carlisle's attentions, she _hated _to receive them... She did not deserve them.

She had created her own cabinet of isolation.

The nights were dim, bringing sheets of dark mist to cover the windows of her bedroom. Esme often locked herself inside, even though Carlisle was the only person who could have intruded. She had seen him break down doors with his bare hands before... If he'd wanted to break in, nothing could stop him. There was something oddly but fantastically comforting about this.

Esme spent some nights poised and prickling with delectable tension on the very edge of her bed, wondering if he would suddenly burst in...

The windows were covered by webby gray fog, so thick she couldn't see out of them in the night. It made her feel more trapped than ever, but this was fitting. A woman whose control was untamed _should _be trapped.

On these still, foggy nights, she heard Carlisle pacing out in the hall by her bedroom door. He would not speak, but he would communicate his concerns through his beating breath. When he could not be in the same room, he was as close as he could be to her. Right outside her door. Every night. So far, he had pleaded only in silence.

One night, when the first hour of morning came, he was even more restless than he had been on the previous eve. He must have worn a hole in the carpets with all of his pacing. His lungs must have been stretched thin from every deep inhale, every shuddering exhale…

Sick though the desire was, she wanted to _see_ just what this torture had done to him.

Being plagued by curiosity, Esme finally lit a wick and threw open the doors to the hall.

His eyes glowed in candlelit surprise.

Esme froze in the threshold, clutching the candle dish like a twig to its last leaf in autumn. Her eyes spoke for her, _What is it?_

His lashes flickered, his face fell, his lips pouted. From the crestfallen look on his face, she could have assumed he had just been excommunicated. Perhaps he was offended by her refusal to speak out loud… But no, there was something in his hand.

She looked down as he did, and even in the darkness she saw the red.

"I am so worried for you, Esme," was all he said as he reached for her empty hand and placed the heavy castor oil bottle between her fingers.

The blood was still warm.

"I can't drink this," she murmured unthinkingly back at him. She could feel the dark fever of shadows pressing in around them and it made her all the more rebellious to his wishes.

He said nothing, but his expression was so incredibly clear that he hadn't needed to speak. Behind the lackadaisical tilt of his head, the wise droop of his eyelids, and the disapproving dip of the dimple in his cheek, she saw the unmistakable words he would have uttered if he had the gall: _Oh, Esme, now you are_ _being_ _ridiculous. Do not test my patience. _

"It isn't right," she protested weakly, with a half-hearted attempt to push the bottle back into his hand.

He pushed back, harder this time.

"I refuse to do nothing while you lock yourself away and punish yourself like this." He had only whispered the words, but the gruff passion in his voice wielded such quiet power that she could scarcely call it a whisper. "You know very well what will happen if you neglect to tend to your thirst."

He looked disconcertingly strong, standing there as he let the shadows wrap themselves languidly around his tall form. He was staring down at her, his rum-ripened gaze glistening with challenge that fed ravenously off the light of the candle. His blond hair was loose and longer looking in its uncombed frame around his sturdy face. His collar was unbuttoned and his neck looked like it had been carved from marble... and she could see the slim crescent edges of his scars peeking out from under the fabric, like cracks on an ancient sculpture. All while the imbalance in light shamelessly emboldened the chiseled symmetry of his forehead, his cheeks, his jaw...

Her fingers unwillingly clasped the bottle of blood, accepting it from his hand.

She stared down at the scarlet gift, repulsed by its tempting perfume...

_Rabbit_. She should have known.

Carlisle barely found time to hunt for himself, and now he was hunting for her. He could not leave the grounds, and so they had to settle for whatever came to _them. _

With nothing left to hold, his hand had curled into a fidgeting fist against his hip. She looked at his twisting fingers for a moment in curiosity, then met his eyes.

"Please. Drink it while it's still warm," he told her softly. And the shadows swept him away.

Her heart crushed itself in disgust as she locked her door and curled up into a corner to greedily down her liquid life. She hated that he would have to hear her purring like the God-forsaken animal she was while she drank. Her eyes turned to a putrid puce in the mirror after draining the last drops, and she sobbed when she remembered the day he had told her he was proud of her for abstaining.

Carlisle was surely not proud of her now.

She was just an animal. No better than the prey she fed upon.

Esme made a sad scavenger of herself, scraping along the halls in search of something – anything to give her a sense of direction, of relief. She was like a spirit made to haunt the halls. A destructive, lonely spirit trapped in limbo.

Many rooms she had missed in her pointless pilgrimage throughout the old mansion were quickly discovered. Some doors still were locked, but she lazily broke whatever handles she had to, to let herself inside.

One evening, she stumbled into it.

It was a room like any other – at least at first it looked to be that way – dreary, plum colored wallpaper and carpets, and curtains that were pulled back to let just a little more light stream through the windows. There was an elegant mahogany armoire and a fairly sizable bed with black-cherry colored quilts, impeccably ordered gold and purple pillows, and not a single wrinkle. Clearly no one had touched it for some time.

There was a desk by the window which had been placed at an awkward diagonal so the light from the window shined directly onto it. On its surface were the four tubes of blue pigment, two missing whites, and the jar of linseed oil that had gone missing from her painting supplies. And leaned precariously against the wall was a canvas of modest size – an unfinished masterpiece that most certainly did not belong to her.

After the pungent perfume of the linseed oil, the strongest scent that permeated the room was a crudely familiar aroma that reminded her of Christmas.

_He _had painted it. The painting belonged to Carlisle.

Esme held her fingers over her lips as she hesitantly approached the desk, as though it were a sleeping baby she was trying not to disturb. The painting's subject was clear, even in its unfinished state: a landscape of the backyard lake, lined with its signature weeping willows and shady birch trees. The colors were limited to deep blues, violets and grays; the only highlights conceivable with the gentle mixing of white. The artist's lines were soft and sweeping, forming shadowy silhouettes of trees and exquisite reflections of a moonlit sky over water. The most detail had been concentrated not in the sky or the land, but in the water – every ripple had been meticulously rendered to the point where it showed an almost iridescent translucence. And the glaring difference between the heavy intricacies of the water beside the loose shadows of the trees and sky made the painting all the more intriguing. But above all, her fascination with the piece was credited entirely to the fact that she was in love with its artist.

She had asked him once if he had ever painted before.

_"In my mind, Esme. Nothing more than that." _

Had he even known then what brilliant artist lay beneath that man who was afraid to try?

The _care_ put into every brushstroke, whether painstaking or free, was palpable in just one glimpse. Every raised swipe of pigment and every space where the oil still glistened as it patiently dried was precious to her awestruck eyes. The careful balance of colors and the tender glaze of divine light leaking from the opaque moon spoke volumes to his unique sensitivity. She longed to bring her finger forward and touch the ripples of the painted lake that seemed in danger of flowing right off the canvas. But if she had touched it and marred his work in even the tiniest of ways, she would never have the strength to forgive herself.

Her eyes sparkled with venom, and the trembling strain of sadness twisted in her throat as she stared at the painting for several long minutes, inconsolably touched by its dark purity and its somber beauty. And thinking back to the petty days when she had been _irritated _that her paints had all gone missing suddenly made her gaze glisten with guilt. If only she had known what they were being used to create behind her back all this time…

Her own ironic words stung her lips as she recalled saying once to Edward that _"Doctor Cullen would never steal."_

But he had been the culprit all along; a culprit he could hardly be called with his all too innocent intentions.

_He_ had wanted to paint. He had wanted to paint _like she had... _

And now she had carelessly broken into this room where he had gone every night to paint in secret. Her hand had torn the handle from the door and her breath had disrupted the drying glaze of his solitary masterpiece.

Esme remembered the beauty of art, the passions she had once had for such wonderful freedom through colors and expression. Carlisle had once shared this passion with her. Art had been a goddess in her world before the taste of blood...

Without bothering to cover the evidence of her intrusion, Esme fled from the room, dashed across the hall, locked the door to her own bedroom and sunk into the deep blue sea of satin quilts, sobbing silently to herself. She heard Carlisle calling for her, but she did not respond. She never responded when he did this. His pretty voice would soon grow tired and give up saying her name. He should save his sacred breath for someone who deserved it.

Her prediction was perfect. At the exact moment his voice faded into nothing, she lifted her head and looked warily about the room.

"Esme." His voice was more perfect than her prediction.

"Hm?" She barely found it in her to make some noise of recognition.

"Please let me in."

A shiver crawled up her spine as she considered the request. She would be letting him into her bedroom, no less.

"I beg of you," his voice faltered. "It upsets me to see you so... broken."

She gasped softly, pulling the pillow up to cover her mouth, but he must have heard it through the cotton.

Carlisle broke.

"You cannot go on like this, Esme. You cannot keep shutting me out... I just can't take it." His words were soft and tortured, crumbling like moist cake cut with a fork. He was in pain, and his pain was _touchable_ in the way he spoke, his voice muffled behind the door that kept him hidden. "You're so distraught, Esme. I know it – I see your pain. You must understand how wretched I feel just watching while you lock yourself away."

Oh, how he spoke to her. As if she were his only care in the world. It was recklessly wonderful. And he had no idea what she had just seen – that secret piece of his soul that had brought her these invisible tears.

He had no idea that _she _could see how distraught _he _was. That she could see _his _pain. But how could she break through to him? How would he ever know just how wretched _she _felt watching _him…?_

"Carlisle, I'm..."

It was fascinating, the way he stopped everything at the sound of her voice. His words, his breath, his every motion was struck still, and he was suddenly nonexistent behind that door. She almost worried he may have left her. But he would never leave her.

"...I don't know what else to do," she admitted in a quivering voice, kneading her forehead with her fingers in shame. "It hurts me."

"You don't need to hurt anymore," he said with all the humble triumph of a hopeful hero. "Let me help you erase that hurt."

Oh, how appealing he made it sound…

"But after what I've _done_... I don't deserve anything but to hurt this way," she insisted stubbornly, and she wondered if he could hear the sounds of her nails shredding the pillow.

"For God's sake, Esme, that isn't true!" he all but whimpered in protest. "This sin is unjustified – it consumes _us_. We cannot control it!"

"You have never fallen, Carlisle," she accused tearfully, preparing to sink into hibernation beneath the covers. "You don't know what it's _like_..."

"I'm not a fool, Esme!" he defended, his voice peppered with spots of guilt. "I can _see _precisely what it is like by watching you suffer!"

Disarmed by the uncharacteristic force behind that voice, she recoiled under the quilts, shaking from the effects of his flagrant display.

But there was something in the hitch of his voice that showed her something more – a brief flash of things unseen. A shame. A projection of anger, of guilt. A thirst for pardon.

But why?

He was not the sinner here.

Yet she could see that Carlisle's pain may have been as great as hers...and his frustration was one hundred times stronger.

This stunned her into silence.

"What will it take to bring you back, Esme?" She could hear the strain in his voice as he tried to calm it, and the pressure of his hands on her door. It both thrilled and devastated her. "Name it and it will be done."

She could not.

No matter how severe his concern or how bleak her agony, she was not ready to resurface from her dive. It was too much too soon.

"Leave me. Please."

And because Carlisle was helpless to obey her every wish, he left her.

She could hear that he did not go far, though. He never actually made it to the bottom of those stairs. He lingered, just far enough that he was not intruding on her cry, but she knew he could hear her. He could hear the nonexistent splatter of each invisible tear that fell from her eyes. He could hear the anguish of her heart, her regret for what she had done.

His presence was terrible because she was so _pleased _to have it. Deep down she was incredulous that he remained there, letting her cry when she needed to. But somehow he knew the exact distance to keep, and the precise moments to offer a tiny whimper to show he was still there. He showed her, always, that he was still there. He still cared. He still wanted to free her from her despair.

He would be waiting for the hour she finally released herself from her turmoil. He would be ready to accept her once again, and she _knew _this. She found comfort in this. When the end to this road finally peeked over the horizon, Carlisle would still be shining for her, still asking for her, still tenderly forcing her to find her peace once again.

By the next evening's peak, though, he was back. Right in that very same spot she had deemed forbidden, with his hands pressed against her door and his breath beating against the wood.

Every sprig of energy in Esme's body was pulling her towards that door. Everything in her was begging her to _let him in. _

Even in his silence, she could hear his pain. And her pain was desperate to mingle with his. Maybe the combined pain of both their hearts could yield something beautiful.

She had to know.

"Please, Esme."

She had heard those two words hundreds of times since they'd met one another, but no matter how many times they grazed her ears, she could never refuse them.

Her feet did the thinking for her then, and in a moment the doors were wide open, welcoming the overwhelming flood of his rich scent around her, and she willed it to permeate all of the room – the carpets, the curtains, the bed sheets…

He took such a deep breath that his chest was like that of a drowning man. He stood facing her between those doors, with the faint violet light of belated sunset flickering tiny sparkles across his face. Blond was made pink and blue was made gray, and she was disastrously wounded by his beauty.

She was ready for him to fall to his knees in shock, or chastise her, or praise the Lord or…something.

But the worry in his eyes was for the world. It was a worry that made their situation seem tiny and pitiful.

She had never seen Carlisle looking so tortured, so lost. She could barely speak in the face of such exquisite distress.

"Oh... Oh, God... What is it?"

"Esme... It's Edward..." Carlisle blurted suddenly, his voice broken with trembles.

Her lips fell open, startled by the unexpected mention of his son. "What do you mean?"

"I mean he has never been gone for this long before, and I don't know if he will return unless I find him."

"But... you were so sure..."

She remembered Carlisle's faithful mantra as he stared boldly out at the horizon night after night, the sweet assurance uttered only to soothe himself, _"He'll be back tomorrow. He'll come back in the morning." _Carlisle had chanted it every night beneath his breath, as if speaking about a wandering old pet whose fidelity would promise inevitable return.

The hope in his gaze was muted now. "I won't pretend anymore, Esme." He shook his head, his eyes weary. "He's been gone for too long now. Tonight makes eight days. I need to go out and find him myself."

Esme reeled a bit at the time that had passed. _Eight days? _Had she been that consumed by her own agony that she failed to notice how long it had been since she had last seen her Edward?

Suddenly she felt incredibly guilty that Carlisle had been worried enough to have obviously counted the minutes since Edward had left. And now he wanted to_ find_ the boy?

The conviction in his proposal frightened her, and she was instantly aware of the greatest flaw in his plan. "But I..."

Carlisle raised his head unthreateningly, never breaking their gaze. "You must come with me," he whispered as if it were his most passionate secret.

Her stomach twisted itself into a tight little knot at the suggestion. "Come with you...?"

"As much as it pains me to do this to you, Esme, I can give you no choice in the matter," he said quietly. "I refuse to leave you here alone."

She looked down in shame, knowing exactly why she would never be trusted again. And she did not blame him. She would never trust herself again, either.

"It isn't _that,_ Esme," he practically hissed, taking hold of both her arms to emphasize his assurance. His hands were too warm and he was saying her name too many times, and she was speechless with uncertainty and fear. "I _need_ you with me. _You_ can convince Edward where I cannot."

Even though the thought would have been inconceivable moments before, Esme now considered the possibility that maybe Carlisle _did _need her, that she might help their chances for bringing Edward back. She was only more than willing to be brave for the boy. But this was all happening far too fast.

"I can't." Her first instinct was always to first refuse him in the face of fear. To step outside at all was unthinkable. Mother Nature practically whimpered when Esme so much as thought to set foot on the earth. There was so much she could unintentionally destroy...

The aching beauty of Carlisle's face fell into perfectly proportioned desolation. "You _can_, Esme. I won't let go of you for one _second _this time. I promise_._"

The poignancy of his promise was insufferable, and she nearly gave in without thinking then. It was because he'd said her name. She could never refuse him when he said her name in that way...

She instead shook her head vehemently, her mind still full of a soft white storm that hindered her mind's coherence.

He made a pained little noise that was so perfect she wanted to sob.

"Please don't make me do this," she hissed desperately, allowing her head to fall forward and her fingers to latch onto his sleeves. They were both clinging to each other now.

It was fascinating how much taller he seemed when she was this close to him. She felt almost insultingly small beside him. The difference in their heights somehow both upsetting and… riveting.

"I don't understand…"

His voice was explicitly soothing above her as her head bowed in shame, suspended so closely over the tempting support of his shoulder. She fervently fought against the invisible magnet that longed to force her forehead flush against the soft fibers of his sweater. She had every excuse at her dispense to lean into him – and he would have regarded said action as completely innocent, given the dire context – but despite the perfectly legitimate opportunity, she could not bring herself to do it.

"I never want to go out there again," she shakily confessed to his shoulder.

His breath fanned over the top of her head as his voice shook with regret. "You know that I would never force you to do anything, but you must understand that we have no choice now."

They always had a choice. They didn't have to go anywhere. They could stay in this house forever and wait patiently for Edward to come back. And if he never _did_ come back…

She would be devastated beyond repair.

Good Lord, they really did have _no choice._

A careless sob shook her chest. "I'll lose myself again. I just know it."

"Dear Esme… You are so quick to doubt yourself." Carlisle sighed in disapproval, his tone gentle and disturbingly passionate. She shivered at the endearment in his address – something about it brought to light the vast difference in their ages, along with the difference in their confidence, in their courage, in their height…

His fingers began to caress patient little shapes on her elbows, the innocent motions further fueling her temptation to fall into his arms. "You have too good a heart to have so little faith in your control."

"But I _have _no control," she sighed hopelessly. "I'll never be the person I want to be."

"But you_ shall _be in time," he whispered, and his voice was closer to her this time. "This is the first step toward becoming that person."

Her head lifted miserably, breaking the nagging pull of his impossibly attractive shoulder. She tried to think of every possibility, every consequence, everything that could go wrong, everything that could go right…

"I can't do this on my own…" she trailed hopefully, tossing her gaze up for his to catch.

"You never have to do anything alone, Esme," he said with ferociously gentle conviction. "I will be here for you whenever you need me."

What was it about those words? Why did they bother her so? There was nothing crude in his wording, no underlying implications, nothing but genuine sincerity.

These were the kindest of words she could have hoped to receive from him. And they thrilled her, as they should have, but not for the reasons they should have.

He was, in a way…offering himself.

But then…

Her eyes flickered involuntarily to the bed in her peripheral, and suddenly she placed the true cause of her agony. His fingers stilled their lovely strokes on her arms and he backed slightly away from her, disconcerted by her suspicious stress.

They were right here. Alone. In her bedroom. Six or seven steps to the left, and her legs would have brushed against the mattress.

And she needed him.

He was here when she needed him.

Already he was keeping his promise.

The newborn irrationality of her brain tracked backwards through the dust of her worries with pubescent unpredictability. Every daydream she had entertained came rushing back to her, and here, now, in the rapidly flooding darkness, with _him _practically in her arms, those daydreams did not seem so inconceivable. They could be real. This was too real.

"Esme…?" She barely heard him whisper her name. Her eyes were still hooked to the appealing blue silk of those sheets and she could scarcely concentrate on anything but breathing. "What is wrong?"

His head turned slowly in the direction of the bed, but his eyes did not see the things she saw upon it. He looked and he saw nothing. Nothing but darkness shrouding elaborate furnishings.

"Lord, Esme… You look so frightened." He dipped closer to her face in the purest concern, and a tremendous guilt swooped in to replace the fleeting fantasies. "It isn't as hopeless as you think it is, truly."

Blessings be upon him. He had _no idea _what she had been thinking about.

Numbly, she confessed, "It feels that way."

His eyes blazed with compassion and suddenly her chin was at rest in the cradle of his palm. He tilted her head up to face him and his lips glistened with mercy.

"Be brave, Esme. For Edward." His eyes faltered unsteadily for a moment before rising with a dark flash to meet her searching gaze. "For… me."

Beneath the mercy and compassion and forgiveness in his face, she saw something in his eyes that was _not_ mercy and compassion and forgiveness. It was...unthinkable, but so stark.

He _knew_ they were alone. He knew they were in her bedroom. He knew the darkness was theirs in this moment.

He knew this as well as she.

But he was not the kind of man to say these things out loud. He was the kind of man to speak them in the silence of a knowing gaze.

And that was what he did.

Speechless and breathless and guileless, Esme submitted to the inescapable gravity of Carlisle's embrace.

Had she known precisely what she had been denying herself by refusing to free-fall into his arms all of this time, she would have flung herself against him on the very first day. This haven, this sanctuary, this tabernacle of terrible tenderness that was the impervious circle of his arms – this was proof that sacred forces were at work in the world. Something so simple as holding another person should never _feel _like this. There were rapids of liquid energy pulling between them – a tremendous _coursing _between their bodies that just bridged on being violent in its intensity. Yet she was perfectly at peace, even in the midst of that thrilling storm. She could have sobbed like a child here, sheltered from every evil, but the ability had been stolen from her from the very man she now embraced. Her hands collided with warm, firm muscle, and no heartbeat to hear as she clung to the fine fabric armor that clothed the fortress of his body.

"I want him back," she whimpered, savoring the reverberations of her words against his solid chest. "Why did he leave us?"

Carlisle's hands tightened their grip around her back wordlessly, but he never uttered a response.

She tilted her head back to look up at him, pleasantly startled at the distressing proximity of his face to hers. Their lips were so close she could taste the saccharine pressure of his breath. But the strain in his eyes told her quite clearly that her question could not be answered.

"We _will_ bring him back," he assured with hushed urgency. Her trembling melted under his certainty, and his arms slowly slid from around her back so that his hands could frame her cheeks. "There, now... Do not cry."

He spoke as the sun might coo to storm clouds, his voice so gentle she barely heard him. His brows were drawn together in pity, but his lips were lightly lifted in a tentative smile as he stroked her hair back from her eyes.

Esme thought she saw something like wonder in his smile as he held her – like a child who had discovered the sense of touch for the very first time. His fingers were trembling in her hair, slipping through the strands with almost awe-filled finesse. There was a tension in his body, as if touching her was torture... But somehow she knew that he did not fear her.

He was so _close _to her, yet he was not afraid to touch her, to share this space and air and time with her.

A saint and a sinner.

Both were sharing this embrace.

"We _will _fix this," he said in a resolute whisper, letting his hands drift gently through her hair to rest upon her shoulders.

She nodded weakly as the sureness of his touch warmed her, swelling with a rage of newfound resolve. She could do this for Edward. For Carlisle.

For herself.

"Find something suitable to wear," Carlisle whispered with a glance to the open wardrobe. "We'll leave tonight."

* * *

_**A/N:**__ To see some of Carlisle's thoughts and emotions during this chapter, you can read "Chapter 12: A Taste of The Doctor's Medicine," in __**Behind Stained Glass.**_


	32. Far From Home

**Chapter 32:**

**Far From Home **

* * *

Carlisle's words of parting left an echo of warm hope in Esme's ears.

He gave her a long, meaningful stare before closing the door to her bedroom behind him.

Still staring, he took the brass handle and held it tightly as his arm moved slowly back. His eyes never left hers as he separated her room from the hall, protecting her privacy.

She heard his swift stride through the hall. She heard him getting dressed. She masked the soft sounds of his clothing with the sounds of her own. But the one sound they could not mask was the gentle clink of the cross around his neck as it fell against his chest.

The sound was soothing.

An odd wave of calmness purified Esme's mind as she wrapped herself in the scent of new cotton fibers. It was a chaste, temperate scent. A warm, cleansing feeling.

With her strength renewed somewhat, she opened her door and walked to the top of the staircase.

Carlisle was wearing blue.

There was something about the color blue. Something so disturbing in the way it suited him. It was a dark color that was made bright and true when he wore it. As Esme had recently discovered, even Carlisle's artwork looked best in shades of blue. From this, she guessed it must have been his favorite, and it was fitting. Carlisle was made for the color, or maybe the color was made for him.

She was slightly affronted at the sight of him, standing at the bottom of the stairs, clad in the finest shade of the color yet, obviously with no qualms as to the potential for ruining such beautiful clothes. He had no jacket over his tunic, no tie around his neck. He wore the same boots he always wore while hunting – the ones that clenched beneath his knees and made him look like a prince. It almost made her ashamed that she had most certainly not looked like a princess.

Esme had dressed herself in many colorless layers that she had the least care in getting dirty, uncertain as to what could possibly be appropriate for an indeterminate amount of time spent traveling miles from their home.

Truth be told, the thought of leaving the house behind still made her anxious. Vampires were supposed to abandon all ties to the idea of a home, but Esme was reluctant to leave it. Hunting was different because she would return as soon as it was over. But Edward was a needle in a haystack. He could be anywhere, and she was still uncertain if he would be coming back at all.

Try as he might, Carlisle was not very convincing in his claim that Edward would more than likely come back to them out of sympathy. Pride was something Edward did not take lightly. Esme could see deep down that he wanted to be looked after, but he did not like to be dependent on others. He perceived it as a vulnerability.

It was hard for her to understand how someone could despise being dependent upon someone else. Esme relished dependence like nothing else – it was one of her less attractive weaknesses. She might have been able to take care of herself as a vampire, but she still retained her human-like insecurity, her need to be under the wing of another. As of now she was under Carlisle's wing, and she loved it here.

His wings were like shields. One was for her, and the other was for Edward. But with Edward gone, Carlisle longed to fill the empty one. Would it be so much for her to ask that she occupy them both until he came back?

Esme considered loneliness to be one of the very worst of curses. She could never be on her own again, especially not now that she had come to know company so loyal and true. How Edward could stand to be by himself for so long was inconceivable to her. But when she imagined the strapping youth, blazing a trail through forests and mountains, a bold and daring vagabond – it suited him. Perhaps Edward was meant for that life.

Carlisle had tried so hard to convince himself that Edward's return was inevitable. He tried so hard, it was painful for her to watch him.

It hurt Esme so deeply that she had to slow to a halt on the stairs when she saw him there, pressed to the window pane with one hand in his pocket and his forehead against the other. His stance was neither proud nor relaxed as it usually was. He stood awkwardly, but there was an elegance to the way he held his weight, as if he were tentative to impress any force on that poor wall that supported him.

But it was not this uncharacteristic awkwardness that struck her so. It was more the telltale angle and distant expression of his face. He looked so _lonely, _leaning there against the window while the light rain sprinkled and sparkled outside. His eyes reflected every droplet and made it gold. His skin caught the shadows from the droplets on the glass, and it looked as though there were real tears spilling slowly down his sculpted cheeks. Everything in his stance, in his expression, in his gaze was flooded and flush with that exquisite loneliness. And as he tilted his head tiredly against the window frame, he looked so utterly worn down from it all, from being alone. She wanted to swipe those shadowy tears from his cheeks and kiss the velvet lines of his worried brow. She wanted to give his weary head a softer place to rest. She wanted to embrace him, all of him, and save him from the ghostly clutches of his solitude.

He turned to her warily, and she saw that his eyes were an anxious storm of tempestuous gold, made all the more bright by the color he wore. It was that infuriating blue again – the most grotesquely gorgeous hue she had ever seen him wear. It was like the richest, most vivid shade of robin's egg, cursed by ultramarine, then drowned in the Pacific. His wardrobe seemed to include every shade of blue possible, from the airiest periwinkle to the deepest midnight. But this was the worst one yet – the most heartbreaking – and she had no idea why.

There was something both perplexing and devastating about the fact that he had chosen it to dress himself in that evening. Why such a beautiful color for such a potentially dangerous escapade? It wasn't appropriate, but he obviously had no care as to whether or not it survived the night in one piece.

Something terrible inside Esme hoped that it would not.

She winced at the nature of her thoughts, suddenly burning with frustration and confusion as she descended the stairs, prolonging the journey one step at a time.

She could not blissfully recover from what she had done in just over a week. A mistake so monumental needed more time to heal. With eternity waiting up for her, Esme felt brutally ashamed that she still wished to rearrange the minutes to her liking. But was she truly a selfish woman to ask for more time?

As she reached the last step on the staircase, she decided, _yes_, she was selfish to wish for more time.

"We'll head south first," Carlisle informed her as they met by the end of the stairs. She could tell by the strain in his voice that he was trying so hard to sound calm for her.

"You don't think he went north?" she asked dubiously, knowing Edward normally favored the less populated trails that led toward Canada.

Carlisle looked exceedingly uncomfortable at her question, his voice steady but quiet as he replied, "No, he wouldn't go north."

Esme bit her lip in clear uncertainty, knowing if the decision had been hers, she would have gone north to look for the boy. It was obvious that Carlisle knew something which led him to believe the opposite, something he was not telling her.

"How long do you plan to look for him?" Esme asked timidly as he led her to the back door.

"It's likely we'd be back by tomorrow," Carlisle presumed as he opened the door for her and locked it behind him. "Something keeps telling me he is not far gone." His eyes swept fiercely across the green velvet land of the estate.

She showed her relief with a quiet sigh, watching Carlisle's expression change from solemn to hopeful from the corner of her eye. The crickets had started their cheerful evening chatter already, as the tide of twilight rolled through the sky.

They stood for a long minute or so beside each other on the porch, staring out at the trees and the slim line of lake that peeked beyond.

"It's so quiet out here," Esme found herself saying, out of pity for the silence itself.

Carlisle acknowledged her with a sad look.

It was not his eyes that brought back the memories, but rather the way he was staring at her that reawakened _that night_ with a vengeance. _She was back in his arms in front of the fire, soaking wet and sobbing. He was hovering above her, hushing her, rocking her back and forth like a restless infant._

She saw the blood, the venom, the _face... _

"I'm afraid," she confessed almost inaudibly. "I cannot keep myself from remembering it."

The sobs were coming swiftly, quivering from her chest to her throat. She was almost powerless to stop them. But then he stepped in.

Fiercely, he reached out and clutched her wrist.

Her eyes dilated in surprise, dropping to their connection to savor its fleeting beauty.

"There is a time when remembering it is all you feel you can do," he whispered, his voice wise but somehow unsure. "You are trapped in this time now, Esme."

She raised her eyes, seeking the answer for escape. But Carlisle did not have the answer.

He did, however, have faith in her.

"But by overcoming this fear, you will find peace again," he assured, his dark eyes drenched by encouraging moonlight.

"How?" she demanded in a whisper.

"Trust _yourself_, Esme," he told her, blunt and brave. "Leave the past behind, and know that you can overcome anything if you only believe you can."

But this was easier said than done.

With a nervous glance at the night throbbing around her, her voice faltered in unsteady doubt. "Maybe it is...still too soon, Carlisle."

"Perhaps it _is,_" he conceded softly. "But in staying here I fear you may only sink deeper, Esme."

Sink deeper, she would. He was right.

But to take any step further was still just as dangerous. Here, she was safe. Here,it was not dangerous. The air was clear around them here. No blood, no humans, no _life. _The only life she found was in his scent – the wonderful clutch of candles and cinnamon, incense and hope.

"I'm breathing the air." She didn't know what spurred her to say it, but it felt right. It felt like a wondrous accomplishment that she needed to share with him.

And he could not have looked more proud, more relieved, more stricken with the softest jubilation she had ever seen.

"You are..."

Her hand twitched happily where he still held it, and a weight of her doubt melted under the brightness of his eyes.

"Is it all right to be afraid?" Her question was insecure, but she was entirely sure of his answer.

"Yes, Esme, yes." He pressed the words into her heart like a hand leaving its impression in a pillow. "But remember, I will be _right here _with you."

His hand clutched hers so tightly she felt her pulse return. It was so invigorating, she almost abandoned the fear. Almost.

"Don't let go," she pleaded. But she hadn't needed to plead.

His eyes promised her that he never would let her go_. _

"Let's find him," Carlisle finally murmured, his voice barely audible over the preaching nightlife.

Esme followed suit as he darted across the yard, her hand caught in his, the grass cold and marshy beneath their feet. The song of the crickets strengthened as the forest swallowed them between its dark curtains of leaves, and the ground seemed to move on its own as they ran.

Carlisle was disconcertingly quiet as they put miles of empty forest behind them that night. The darkness between them was a frustrating barrier that hindered her view of him. During the darkest hours of the night she kept within his tracks by his scent and his single hand. It was a powerful yet fragile way to bond. There was always the thrill that at any moment she could lose him, or he could lose her...

Their bodies were incapable of feeling exhaustion, but there was almost a false sense of fatigue that seized her if she ran for too long without resting. It was not that she was physically incapable of running any longer, but that running for such a long time felt uncomfortable. Unpleasant. Unnatural.

Before the sun had hopes to rise, they stopped in the middle of the thick forest to rest without cause. They only needed to take a moment beside each other, to stop their endless run and remember that they were not animals.

They settled themselves in a dark clearing of trees where they could stand somewhat safely beside each other. But even at their minimal distance, Carlisle's presence was like a canopy over Esme. He seemed to hover, even if he wasn't really hovering. He was deliberating every move she made, even when he was not even looking at her. He was summoning every breath she took, even though he was silent.

Esme's knees began to rebel against their natural duty to support her stance. Reluctantly, she sat herself down on the slightly sticky circle of a broken tree stump, not caring what it did to her dress.

She watched Carlisle carefully as he walked for a while, pacing a protective circle around the place where she sat, as if declaring it safe from spirits. He looked so juxtaposed against the background of blackened twigs and charred leaves – like a brightly colored cutout pasted against the dark. He just didn't belong here. Carlisle really didn't belong anywhere in this world. He was transcendental, even while pacing like any normal man. He could never _look_ like a normal man. Not to her.

His broad path led him slowly closer to her, and with each step he drew nearer, her arms grew tenser and her chest grew tighter. Finally his feet brought him to stand at her side once again.

She was caught in an awkward position, sitting so close to him where he stood that her gaze had no place to fall but directly upon his midriff. He moved slightly, as if aware of her discomfort, but she was unable to pry her eyes away once he had.

Sometimes these moments would happen, moments where he would seem so inescapably _real _to her. They happened most often when he stood indecently close to her. She was torn between an appreciation and a _fear_ of his body. Her eyes would blink and her throat would constrict, but none of it could make the feeling go away. Once that moment hit her, it was too late; he had made himself unignorable. And with her eyes glued helplessly somewhere in the vicinity of his hip, she suddenly felt so small, so breathless, so...naïve.

She had an irrational need to _protect _herself, but that need made no sense. She was safer with Carlisle than she could have been with any other man, but somehow she felt it was not her _safety_ that was being threatened by his proximity...

Tentatively, her eyes crawled up his body, finding his familiar face at the end of their exhausting journey. As he stared down at her, his expression revealed that his mind was bothered, but he put on a quick, painful little smile to mask it for her benefit.

She knew him better than that.

As soon as he turned away, his mouth set itself in a telltale frown, and with a sigh, his feet began the same mechanic circle about the clearing.

The appeal of his forlorn pout was devastating as she watched him try to walk away from his own worries. Her heart burned at the brief thought of kissing him to soothe his stress. It surprised her that such a thought had even crossed her mind under somewhat serious circumstances. It was such a warm thought in such a cool place – a startling spark in the deep trenches of a near frigid night.

But he looked so tormented by the coldness, so lost in the night. She wanted to kiss him, and because there was no one else here, and nothing else to occupy her distraction, she embraced that want. It was not a selfish want at all, she thought. The only reason she _had _wanted it was because she wanted to comfort _him. _

Would he have accepted the intimate gesture from her because she had good intentions? Would he have surrendered to a tender show of intimacy, however slight, if she had given it to soothe his worries? Would he have found it acceptable here, in the middle of the night, in the middle of the woods, without witness or intrusion?

Would he have _wanted _the same thing she wanted?

His cold silence was beginning to disturb her, and out of her own discomfort, Esme had to break through to him...though regrettably not with a kiss.

"Why did Edward leave?" she tried, gently at first, to ask him again. Perhaps talking about his troubles would put him at ease.

Carlisle looked away, almost as if he were pretending not to hear her, which was incredibly juvenile if that was his intention.

"Was it because of what I did?" Esme pressed self-consciously. She was sure this was the reason.

Carlisle's eyes were reluctant, but he told her the truth this time. "It was...in some way," he admitted warily.

She was not surprised. But that did not ease the depression she felt because of it.

"But…Esme," he continued carefully, "Edward has killed two men before."

She stopped dead in her tracks and stared at Carlisle in disbelief as he gazed back in that child-like way he sometimes did, and his eyes were painfully bright in the darkness. His eyes said so much to her there, so much that he could not say with his lips: _Yes, what I have told you is true. Yes, I have trusted you with this secret. Now, will you believe me? Will you understand?_

Under the weight of his silent words, she sunk to her knees in the leaf-strewn earth, and he came to stand before her.

"It was when he was still very young," he revealed quietly, hastily. "I made the mistake of changing him in a more populated area, and it was nearly inevitable that he would slip."

She didn't want to believe what Carlisle was telling her, but there was no way for her to accept it as anything but the truth. Edward had killed, just as she had done. She was not alone in this mistake. It should not have gladdened her deep down, but it did. And for that she was irrevocably embarrassed.

"I can only suppose that he was reminded of those memories when he saw you..." Carlisle trailed into silence uncomfortably. "Well, it would have been difficult for him."

Then it _was _her fault that Edward was gone.

She bit her lip to keep from sobbing. "He won't come back because of me," she just barely whispered.

"That isn't true," he hissed.

The words meant nothing when Carlisle said them. He threw around reassurances so carelessly that they honestly had no meaning when they were intended to mollify her.

"I need to leave," she stated unthinkingly, still frozen in her place.

"No, no, Esme!" He panicked, falling before her on his knee, and she couldn't help but relish the fiery opposition in his tone. "It isn't your fault,it is only that Edward is sensitive to..."

Carlisle could not finish his sentence, but Esme knew what he would have said.

_Edward was sensitive to her uncontrollable blood-lust. She was a wrench in his quest for self-control. She would ruin the poor boy. _

"What if I cannot keep myself from killing again?" she murmured emotionlessly. "Edward shouldn't have to be around me."

"Esme, he _understands _what you are going through," Carlisle insisted ardently. "Edward is a fiercely complicated young man. He knows far too much about everyone around him, and as a result he sometimes...loses himself."

Carlisle's eyes dropped for a moment to her fidgeting hands, and the heat of his gaze gave her tender blisters.

"I wish I could tell him how sorry I am," she mourned as her head fell into her hands.

Carlisle's response was belated, but all the more effective because of its belatedness. "I'm sure he already knows that, Esme."

She lifted her head just the slightest bit, her eyes resting on the toes of his boots. "I want him to hear it from me."

"He will. We'll find him." There was a soft swell in Carlisle's voice that suggested he was smiling as he said it, but that was impossible. "Edward has a talent for inducing panic in others. He has used it against me many times in the past. But he always turns up again. Whether or not he will admit it, he is impressively loyal beneath his recklessness."

She wanted to laugh in relief and allow herself to smile too. But it was not that easy. She was still a ruined woman because of what she had done, and she could not forgive herself for it. Now Edward was hurting because of her mistake, which made it all so much worse.

"He wants to be away from it all," she whispered in understanding. "It's impossible to really blame him."

Carlisle consented thoughtfully, "Some part of us does harbor the instinct to be free within nature, and not be tied down to one place. I know Edward has always had friction with that particular aspect of my lifestyle."

"_I _prefer being in one place," she sighed vehemently.

Carlisle smiled sadly and moved his hand into the open cradle of her elbow. "Whatever happened to your dreams of New Orleans and Rio de Janeiro?"

"I was just being foolish," she said, her throat numb and her voice low. "I'll never be able to just roam about and see new places when I can't even..."

_Can't even step outside alone without killing someone._

Carlisle knew well what she had intended to say. "You cannot give up hope so easily, Esme."

His unprecedented confidence in her was beginning to aggravate her stubbornness.

"But if giving up hope saves lives, then I _will _give it up," she reasoned adamantly.

His eyes furrowed, and she heard the hurt in his sigh of gentle frustration. "You're twisting what I'm trying to say."

She couldn't take it anymore. He was not going to lose his patience with her no matter how much she resisted him. She didn't even know _why _she wanted him to give up on her so badly. Something inside of her enjoyed pushing him to whatever limits he may have had, but now she was discovering that he had no such limits. With her level of self-worth, even the most innocent words of encouragement felt like a threat.

He didn't understand that the more he built up his faith in her, the more devastating it would be when she failed him. And such failure, she knew, was inevitable.

Esme lifted herself off the ground with weak resolution and began to walk away from him, her emotions starting a spiral of sudden hotheadedness. "If I don't think it right to risk killing any more people, then I'll just lock myself up in a cellar for the rest of eternity."

Carlisle rose to his feet and followed after her, and she cursed the fervent passion in his sweet voice as he continued to exacerbate her opposition.

"Please, listen to what you're saying, Esme! You don't believe any of it; you're only still too upset to understand—"

She cut him off sharply with an offended gasp, and before she could rationalize her course of action, she was speeding off in a random direction, just narrowly missing the trees in her frenzied run away from him.

"_Esme_!" His tone was fierce to the point of being unrecognizable, and she immediately halted at the intense echo of her name between the trees. He had pronounced the 'z' instead of the 's.'

A lamb became a lion, for that abrupt moment when he spoke like that. He was such a tender tyrant, such a clap of thunder, such a...vampire.

She peered defensively over her shoulder as he appeared behind her in a whisk of cool colors crowned by blond.

"Don't you dare run away from me." His firm tone would have been sharp if it were not for the unprecedented breathlessness that swept it blunt. As he clutched her arm between both his hands, a panicked sort of protectiveness found dominion over his stance, and it was a horrendously beautiful thing to witness.

She felt the venom clotting under her tongue and swallowed hard, never wavering from the phosphorescent charcoal of his gaze.

"Your faith cannot make me brave." Her voice was cold and void, slippery on her tongue, but like a shard of ice upon the air. It had not been intended to hurt him, but it clearly had, and she could not take it back.

The expression on his face could not have been more broken had he just been rejected at heaven's gates.

"No," he murmured desolately, and she was shocked at the passiveness in his voice. "Only _you_ can do that."

And there she had it, snatched between her fingers. His limit had been reached. She had pushed him over the edge, torn him apart.

The loss of his persistence was even more devastating than she had anticipated. For in that moment there was no fiery care in his eyes, no passionate pleading from his lips. He was through with forcing his blinding light into the dark corners of her heart, and she felt not a shred of satisfaction from the pointless conquest.

She could have cried.

"I want to go home," she begged him tremulously with every part of her being. She felt like a worn-down child, asking for a soft place to put her head to rest; like a hypothermia victim pleading for warmth from the bitter cold.

"No, Esme." He shook his head, his voice infuriatingly soft, "You want Edward. You want _us. _You want all of us together. That is what you want. _That_ is home." His voice grew firmer with every punctuated testimony, but his eyes remained tranquil pools of brilliant ebony, masking the disaster within. "You want to do this. You _want _to be brave. You're only afraid of being dominated by your thirst again. But you won't let that happen. _I_ won't let that happen. And you _know_ that."

She said nothing while her heart emitted rib-rattling cries of confirmation inside her chest.

_How could he know her so well? _It should not have been possible, and it was downright terrifying.

He locked her in place with his powerful gaze, and there was such force within the depths of his eyes – force that was fueled by nothing but exquisite compassion.

She never wanted to kiss him so badly.

Her gaze was not even for his lips in that moment; it was focused entirely on his eyes. If she could have, she would have kissed those eyes. They were what made her want to lose herself and find herself all over again.

His profile urgently flashed in both directions before her paralyzed stare. "I need you to pick up his scent, Esme," he ordered in a deep, intense voice that did not fit the gentleness of his grip on her arms. He guided her to face the cavernous maze of trees before them. "In which direction should we be headed?"

She knew in which direction _she _should be headed, and it was somewhere in the vicinity of the two strong arms that were just behind her...

Involuntarily, her shoulders fell back, just nearly grazing his chest as she tried to succumb to the devious little magnet that constantly tugged her towards him. He quickly steadied her upright with a bothered sigh, mistaking her need for closeness as her giving up. "Do this for me, Esme. You _want_ to find him," he spoke against the shell of her ear. "I know you do."

His hand released her arm on one side and rose up beneath her chin, slowly tilting her head back to receive the swarming scents upon the air.

"Do not think of anything but finding him. Do not worry yourself about anything else, and do not be afraid. I will be right here behind you."

A chill prickled through the back of her neck at the gentleness of his touch, encouragement enough in knowing this was something he could not do on his own. She was needed. Carlisle needed her.

Without even so much as a voiced command, Esme breathed as deeply as her lungs would allow, and the scents separated themselves in a frantic filing within her brain. Every distinct aroma was named and tossed away, swallowed and regurgitated until the one she was searching for sparked like a sweet shining star in her memory. Her eyes snapped open and the venom pooled.

"Take me to him," Carlisle whispered into her ear.

And she was off, flying like a feral nymph through the trees, his vigilant aura brushing her ankles with every flashing step.

The once dense forest was now as thin as film. Fine papery trees were flicked aside by her fingers, and every obstruction melted out of their way like watercolors on a canvas of limp earthy tissue. Her feet sprung twice a microsecond against downy soil that ghosted into nothing beneath her speed, a precipitate to her hope. She could close her eyes and never be blind to her surroundings. Every stamp of her footprint on the earth appeared as a tiny dot in the vast map of her mind – a sensual lithograph of every organism within the five mile radius for her disposal. Everything parted for her beeline to an unseen destination.

They pierced through the night, quickening the hours by their speed in the direction of the rising sun. When the light of the morning star finally slickened the sky, it only excited her pace. She ran faster than ever before. But Carlisle somehow managed to keep mere yards behind her, which should have been impossible.

Her senses may as well have been drenched in void up until the moment his scent made itself a solid presence. She slammed into it – hard honey and heather. Lilac and praline. Delicate but distinct. Evergreen youth.

Her Edward.

He was here.

* * *

_**A/N: **__What did you think of Esme and Carlisle's somewhat awkward attempts at teamwork in this chapter? They are obviously still adjusting to the after-effects of Esme's accident, but they are trying their hardest to bond over finding Edward again. _

_Read on to find out what Edward has to say for himself..._

_As always thanks for reading. :)_


	33. Always Running Away

**Chapter 33: **

**Always Running Away **

* * *

Esme stood stock-still for a grand moment in time, just basking in the bedazzling familiarity of Edward's presence. Behind her, Carlisle abruptly steadied himself with a cautious hand to her arm, his breath hesitant and hopeful against the back of her neck.

"He's here," she informed him.

"He is," Carlisle confirmed in a stolen breath, his voice shivering with anticipation and relief.

Esme cried Edward's name in her mind, silently begging him to reveal himself from wherever he was hiding. She threatened him lovingly for several minutes while Carlisle probably offered a few threats of his own, both of them circling blindly in the dark clearing between the trees. And suddenly, as if he had been there all along, the handsome teenager appeared, perched precariously on the limb of a tall birch tree, a healthy orange glaze to his eyes and a formidable frown on his lips.

So startled by the sudden radiance of his approach, Esme almost dismissed the boy as a mirage. But his scent was palpable, nearly as much as his presence. The weary coolness of his visage was never before such a relief to see.

Her first instinct was to claw her way up that tree and wrap him in a fierce embrace. She would have done it if she could, scooping his lanky limbs into her too-small arms and crushing him with all her might, her passionate scolding lost in the mess of chestnut hair atop his head, making him promise never to leave her sight again.

But Carlisle was still touching her, and every nerve in her body was chained to his fingers.

"So you've found me. You can go back home now." The frigid flatness of Edward's voice was in no way foreign, but it effectively diced her heart apart.

Carlisle stepped forward, his fingers abandoning Esme's arm, and she had to fold her hands tightly behind her to keep from grappling him back.

"Please come down from there, son," he beckoned.

"I'm not your son."

Esme's first reaction to Edward's unfeeling response was stark shock. But even without the ability to read thoughts, she could see the bitter justification behind it. She knew Edward well enough to know that these words were always there, on reserve it seemed, for those moments when he could not think of how to blame the cause of his anger. They were a safeguard to his true feelings, something he could fall back on as an excuse for why he could not follow through with the standards Carlisle set.

It was torture to see the way Carlisle's face fell as soon as the words were out.

"Edward, please don't do this," he said as he stretched a hand up to the tree, as if offering his son aid for descent.

The boy contorted his face in mock-pity. "Pleading again, Carlisle? You're always pleading these days. Do you pick it up from your patients? Do they plead with you to save their lives, to make them well again? Is that where all of this pleading comes from?"

"What—"

"Because it's making me sick," Edward continued in the same deadly cool tone. "It must be up to you to heal me now."

Carlisle's outstretched hand dropped in defeat. "This has nothing to do with—"

"Oh, it has everything to do with this, Carlisle," Edward interrupted swiftly. "You started this whole thing. No matter which way you want to look at it: everything that happens to any of us is your fault." His words were steady and dark. "Everything that happens to _me_, that happens to _her_—" He pointed to Esme without looking at her. "—It's _your_ fault."

Carlisle shook his head more in disbelief at what he was hearing rather than discourse to the accusation.

"Don't play the innocent. You've exhausted that part long ago. I'm through with feeling sorry for you, Carlisle." Even as he said the words, Edward's eyes and voice were filled with ironic pity.

"I never _asked _that you feel sorry for me, Edward." Carlisle's voice was slightly firmer now, but tainted as ever with that gentle edge that was so easily overrun. "But if I may be so bold, it seems as if _you _are the one desperately seeking pity by behaving so childishly."

Edward only scoffed with false amusement and shook his head. "What is it about doctors that makes them think they're God?"

Carlisle's eyes sparked with something Esme had never seen before – a kind of mad, docile flame. It burned away any signs of gentle defense and replaced them with a fierce, impenetrable authority.

"_Enough, Edward!_"

Carlisle's voice was not his voice. His eyes were like ebony and his face was livid as ice. It was the first time he had literally shouted, and the sound was haunting.

Esme could see the very essence of Biblical destruction in his gaze. It was like watching _Revelations_ through two tiny black windows, swarming with blessed terrors.

Suddenly the air was oppressive with the terrifyingly dulcet aroma of Carlisle's venom – strange, cold, sweet. Esme felt the vicious secretions rouse beneath her own tongue, and if she was not imagining the scent, Edward had already felt the threat as well.

She took two wary steps back before Carlisle could continue speaking.

"I refuse to stand here and have this argument again, while putting both Esme and you in danger," the doctor declared in a tone that would brook no refusals. "The longer we stay here, the more at risk you both are."

"Oh, but not _you, _Carlisle!" The dryness of Edward's empty laugh would have made Judean sands feel moist. "You're _never_ a victim to blood-lust, are you?"

Esme watched the gnawing pain churn in Carlisle's eyes, wondering how Edward could have possibly misunderstood such innocence when he could read so much more than just an expression.

He heard only what he wanted to hear.

"Edward, you know very well that I am only speaking in defense of my own responsibility—"

"I am _not _dependent on you, Carlisle!" Edward nearly roared, and a few frightened blue jays twittered away from their nests in shock.

"I never believed that, Edward," Carlisle's voice was timid and hushed, and under any other circumstances it might have even been more effective, but here it was not.

"You're lying!" Edward's voice was not accusatory at all; it was merely defenseless, helpless, childlike. And his face was as much a child's as he said it. Some motherly instinct within Esme engorged her heart with the urge to take him into her receptive embrace and soothe his tantrum.

Everything in Carlisle's face, in his stance, in his voice was strained with helpless agony. "Then maybe I believed it once, but those days are done. I only wish for you to come back to me now. And that must say something of my dependence on _you, _Edward!"

The youth raised his proud profile to the treetop in defiant silence.

Esme searched Carlisle's gaze somewhat desperately until he buried his forehead in one hand and squeezed both eyes shut.

She knew he had not given up. He was only frustrated at the misleading communication between them. In such a situation, the responsibility would have fallen on Edward to clear up the misunderstandings. But he was using his ability to his advantage – being secretive, and most of all selective. He was not going to give in so easily.

She had to convince him where Carlisle could not.

_Edward, I know this is a fantastically awkward time to say this, but I love you._

She willed the words to sink into him, hoping they would mean more to him than they did to her, uttered in perfect silence. It still felt foolish after all this time, uttering fully formed sentences to herself, but somehow they were always answered by him. He always heard her, clearer than she could have heard herself, and it always fascinated her.

Edward's jaw grew rigid but he did not alter his statuesque pose. It only took that imperceptible twitch to know that her words had affected him.

Carlisle walked up to the base of the tree and placed his hand against the bark with a bow of his head, as though bestowing some kind of holy order upon it. Esme watched as the expression on his pale face turned brooding, and it spurred her to continue speaking to Edward.

_I love you like my own son. I know I'm not perfect and I never will be, but I hope that you can forgive me for my mistake, and the mistakes I will make in the future. _

Esme could almost hear the shakiness of her own voice in her mind as she pieced the words together. Occasionally something unintended would slip into the sentence, breaking the preciseness of the syntax, but these little unintentional pieces were what made her plea sincere. There was a Freudian perfection, an inescapable accuracy to reading one's mind, and Edward drained every bit of her thoughts for what they really were. He understood what she was trying to say better than she could actually say it.

His face grew solemn, and the well-crafted defiance wore dim upon his pride.

_Please, don't try to stir a complication. Can't you see how much it hurts him? _

She glanced at Carlisle, and the vision of his distraught distress was conservatively embellished in her mind before she sent it to Edward. She hoped it would be enough to convince him, but as she had learned this evening, Edward had little pity for his father whilst holding a grudge.

Esme suspected now that there was so much more going on between them than she could see. If she was incorrect in her assumptions, Edward did not give her any signs to believe otherwise.

This was between the father and his son.

Her eyes stayed glued to Edward until finally he sent her an almost pleading stare of recognition, and she knew her suspicions were sound.

She knew it was wrong, but she could not help but feel relief by the way of her relative innocence. Edward had obviously forgiven her. She should have known that he was above holding a grudge against her for something she could not control. He had never given her reason to believe otherwise.

But she worried for Carlisle now. She had no way to gauge the bond between him and his son, no familiarity with their previous arguments, nothing to ease her concerns. Foolishly, she thought she might be the only hope in healing their dispute, but she was not brave enough to put herself in such an imposition. Timidly, Esme stood back to give them room.

The aviary songs of early morning began to rouse within the trees, each bird's mellow tune clashing with that of his neighbor in magnificent irregularity. The silence permitted their chirping to echo unaffected for a few minutes as the sun hesitantly surfaced somewhere outside of the thick forest.

Esme could see that Carlisle was speaking to Edward through his thoughts, and it should not have perturbed her, but it did. She wanted to know what he was saying.

"No matter how many times you say that, it won't change anything, Carlisle," Edward huffed idly from his branch. "It has already been done. The damage is done." He tossed a lazy arm behind his head as Carlisle looked up at him in silent distress.

Carlisle's eyes were frightfully glassy as he peered up through the protective tangle of branches, and Esme was almost convinced that he harbored true tears in his gaze.

"Just go home," Edward sighed darkly. It was quite clear that_ he _was not going anywhere this morning.

Esme frowned, knowing no amount of immature pouting was going to change the boy's mind.

_You'll be back, Edward. Promise me you'll be back by tomorrow. _

She rendered the words sharply in her head, not really expecting a response from him.

"Yes, Esme," Edward said softly, thrilling her beyond comprehension.

Carlisle's eyes were almost envious as he looked upon her then, and she cringed apologetically for his sake, not willing to dampen her secretive excitement.

She watched awkwardly as Carlisle gave one last hard look at the cedar-haired deviant before he disappeared in a spectral flash of scrambling limbs up the tree.

He was such an elegant menace.

Esme would have smiled fondly at Edward's antics, but her energy to produce such a reaction was made wan by her dwindling hope. Edward's stubbornness, while lovable under more manageable contexts, was a filter to her faith when she must be expected to leave him alone in the forest for any amount of time where she could not know for certain if he was well and safe. He was not malleable by any means, and this frustrated her. He could have at least pretended to not be so difficult for her sake; if not for hers, then for Carlisle's.

Esme watched Carlisle where he still stood, like a somber statue staring at the place where Edward had just evaporated as though it had been his last moment seeing him alive.

"He'll come back," she said, wishing her voice was not so small, wishing she would not doubt her own words. "He told me he would," she added convincingly, but it did not help.

She stepped closer to Carlisle, who still looked to be in a calm, dark sort of shock, and she tilted her head to gaze up into his face.

There was _definitely _more going on here. More that neither of them were telling her...

"I just want to stay here for a few more minutes...please," he murmured. Before she could respond, he had lowered himself to sit against the very tree Edward had claimed not seconds ago. He leaned back with a worn look of worldly sorrow on his face, in a throne of emerald ivy, resembling some tortured forest king who had just lost his only heir.

"He will be back, Carlisle," she repeated soothingly as she knelt beside him in the cushion of ivy leaves.

"Yes, he will," he confirmed idly, his eyes distant and disturbed. "But he shall be very ill-mannered toward me when he does return." He turned his head down, but something in the set of his eyes told her that was not all that bothered him.

"At least he isn't gone," she insisted, weaker now. Carlisle smiled at her, but it was such a vague smile that it would have been more bearable had he not attempted to smile at all. Seeing how heartbroken _he _was broke _her_ heart.

She looked down – out of shyness, out of sadness. It was not her fault that her eyes happened to drop below his neck and find the collar of his beautiful blue shirt open for all the forest to see. A spark of curious energy was ignited, and before she could summon her control, her gaze had locked itself there without his permission. It was disconcerting, how _exposed _he looked with only his collar open. The flesh there looked even paler than that of his face, like pure snow made stark against the acidic lavender scrapes of an ancient vampire's fangs.

With the most defensive expression she had ever seen grace his face, Carlisle brought his hand up to hover protectively over the markings, his eyes flashing.

"I never touch them," he whispered unexpectedly.

Speechless, she cowered away from the fierce devastation in his face, her brows woven together in alarmed apology. He kept his hand like that, a small pale shield against her curious gaze, covering the shameful crescents from view.

"They still hurt sometimes." His eyes grew glassy as his voice lowered even further, and Esme felt her heart shatter painfully inside her chest.

"They do..." she whispered helplessly in agreement, her hand absently raised to touch her own scars without fear. She touched them, and she let him watch her as she did. She let him see that she was not afraid of the pain he had once inflicted on her, of the chance he had given to her, regardless of the brutality it might have offered in sacrifice.

He looked so upset as he met her challenging gaze. His eyes were so glassy she could see her own reflection in their gleaming golden mirrors. His free hand rose up to cover his perfect lips as he turned away in disgrace.

"Forgive me." He said it so softly, she thought it had been her imagination.

It seemed all Carlisle every did was ask for forgiveness when truly the _world _should have fallen to its knees before him and begged _him _for forgiveness. The world needed Carlisle's forgiveness for never being good enough, for never being worthy enough to house a soul as pure and fervent and wonderful as his.

"There is nothing to forgive," Esme assured just as softly. She wanted to reach out to him, but she was almost afraid to touch him. In that moment he looked so delicate that she feared the gentlest of breezes might have sent him fluttering into tiny porcelain flakes.

"Forgive me anyway," he insisted in a distraught, childlike voice as he turned to spear her with eyes of innocent refuge.

She stared at him. For a long, long time. And things around them began melting and changing and reforming like a touchable dream. She could see nothing but his eyes – caverns of angelic light staring back at her, begging her for something she was not entitled to give, something she did not have inside her heart to present to him. If she _could_ forgive him, what would she forgive him for? For taunting her with his otherworldly purity and compassion, for caring for her in ways that no being had ever dared to care for her before? For whisking her away from death's ruthless grip, for giving her all that she had needed and wanted, only to refuse her _one _thing that she could not ask of him? For not recognizing her insatiable desire for _his _heart, and his heart alone?

There were so many things she could forgive him for, yet of all these things Esme could find not one that made sense to forgive...

"What can I possibly forgive you for?" she had to know.

"For the pain I've caused you. For any pain I _will _cause you..."

His words were cryptic and slightly disconcerting. Still, Esme was blind to what he wanted. But because his eyes were too powerful in their heartbreaking desperation to refuse, the words slipped from her lips.

"You're forgiven."

He closed his eyes, a soft blanket of relief drawn over his face.

"Thank you."

He reached for her hand and held it loosely for a few moments, then his grip tightened around her, and hers tightened in return. The chirping of the birds was almost like music again, and it lulled them both into a daze of false contentment. Like the effects of a weak medicine, the warmth drained too quickly, and the world and all its problems were waiting when they opened their eyes.

Wordless and full of understanding, Esme pulled gently on Carlisle's hand until he rose to his feet. She stared up at him longingly and whispered that she wanted to be home.

Carlisle's sprint was heavy and uneven behind her as they ran together through the forest. He was still helplessly reluctant to put any distance between himself and his son, and it showed in the halting uncertainty of his every step. Esme had her own concerns for the boy, but she knew somehow that he would come back to them. She only didn't know when.

She thought only of home now, wanting only to be safe from the untamed scents that longed to curse her vulnerable newborn instincts. The promise of security lingering just a few more miles away spurred her feet to move faster, and the forest was made of paper again. Fine, wafery flecks of green and brown and…blue.

That disastrous blue that blistered her heart.

Carlisle had gained on her, approximately half a mile from the end of the forest, and she slowed subconsciously to fall into sync with him as he swept over the arc of the earth.

His scent swirled about her like a sweet shield as she ran towards the waiting light at the end of the trees. The early risen sun blinded her in crossing, and it shattered the icy crystals of their skin in a tumultuous rainbow of golden flecks as they rushed madly for the doors.

Why they were in such a frenzy to be inside the house, she had no idea. She had wanted to protect herself, but they were running for dear life when they had none to lose. Like two children who had been lost for days and finally caught sight of their home on the horizon. But she ran even faster when he did, and they were soon racing each other for that door.

Esme let Carlisle reach it first, then she threw herself inside after him, wildly and thoroughly relieved by the satisfying slam of hard wood behind them.

She supposed it was only that wild and thorough relief that caused her to suddenly sob uncontrollably, falling to a helpless heap on the ground by his feet.

"Esme, you're fine. We're fine," he hushed her, pulling her up by her arms with effort. "Edward is fine. He'll come back when he's ready. Shh…"

She centered herself against his balance and waited out the sobs as they passed unforgivingly through her. It was like everything she had suppressed since the incident had come pouring out of her in one crashing tidal wave. She could see no way of surfacing now, even after everything had seemed to be falling into place so well…

Was it always going to be this way? This constant upheaval of emotions, the uncertainty of her sanity, the chance of breaking down and running away, every moment doomed to be a threat?

Carlisle held her like she was his prisoner, and it was so unbearably wonderful that it made her cry harder. He could not help her when everything he did only broke her heart more. Her heart had been divided to its limit of atomic finality, and Carlisle was her only answer to healing it. His unconditional, irrevocable, intoxicating love was the only cure for her disease. She could not swallow this raw, for it would kill her. But she could at least taste a drop of its magnificence on her tongue, in his embrace.

There was a thrilling beauty to falling apart while being held between his arms. No matter how great her will was to sink to the ground, he would not let her. He held her upright, condemning her every attempt to belittle herself before him. It was all anger and hurt and disturbance – disgusting purity clashing with maturity, flooding in from every corner that dared to open its face to his warmth.

Where on earth did he find this warmth? What gave him the means to harness it? How did it glow around him so richly, a full-bodied halo of heat and holiness?

How was she expected to ever walk away from him?

She couldn't stay here.

If just his embrace was this terrifying, she could not have him in any other way, or it would defile her. She could _feel _the passion this man harbored as he held her, and it was rampant, volatile, furiously barred beneath a saint's fear to sin. If he ever dared to unleash the force of it, it would mean the end of her.

She wanted him fiercely. She wanted him closer than he already was, which would have meant being inside of her. If she spent one second longer, flush against him, she was going to do something that would ruin them both.

In the moment she sensed the danger creeping up within her, Esme thrashed herself across the room and hid herself from his crippling light. Sometimes it was safer to be in the dark.

Drowning in guilt and terror and venom, she bolted into her bedroom and stripped the bed, ready to finally tear that mattress apart with her bare hands.

But she couldn't do anything but stare at it in childlike wonder. Everything either spent or stolen, she realized she could not have what she wanted, but Carlisle could not have what _he_ wanted either. She would wither into her damnation like the good little flower she was. She would savor her demise.

It would be all right to hate herself if she admitted to being a demon.

But Carlisle followed her this time. Blazing up the stairs, she imagined his feet would have left a trail of fire. She could feel the heat of him racing up toward her as she shut the door to her room and secured the handle tightly with both hands.

"I don't understand!" He sounded so utterly tortured, frustrated by a blindness that he was not at fault for. "Please, speak to me..."

His voice always tapered at the end. Never could he hold a shout for more than several words; his voice would not allow it. The patience flowed back into him and drew steady circles around his control.

Esme shook her head for no one but herself, and Carlisle sighed from the other side of the door.

"What is it that upsets you so?" he asked again, and she felt a fiddling pressure on the handle where he held the other side. She tightened her grip defensively and took a deep breath.

"It's..._everything!_" She tried to disguise her sobs, but they only came out more gasping and desperate than before.

Carlisle was quiet for as long as it took Esme to calm herself from the fleeting bout of hysteria. When her breaths were even and shallow, and her hand had loosened just a bit on the door handle, he finally spoke. She was never more grateful to hear his voice.

"It will pass, Esme," he soothed. "It always does."

Even through the thick barrier of the door between them, his promise sounded so very lovely.

She laid her forehead against the door in defeat and spoke into the polished wood, her voice tiny. "Will it?"

"Yes." He sounded so relieved, yet so tentative in his triumph. She wanted to throw the door open and see that he was really there on the other side. She wanted to see blond and blue and gold and light.

"Will you open the door now?" he asked.

He jostled the handle suggestively, and her eyes dilated at the delightful threat.

Without a word, she surrendered to his persistent force, all her fingers letting go in one tingling moment, and the handle snapped off. Carlisle pushed the door open, standing there with half the golden contraption in his hand. Never taking his eyes from hers, he dropped it on the floor with an almighty clatter and took her hand in his instead.

Esme did not resist as he pulled her gently but urgently into the disturbingly dark hallway. It was anything but what she had expected him to do, but she was thrilled by the very unexpectedness of it.

"Tell me what is bothering you, Esme. I cannot help you unless you tell me," he whispered almost secretively – rushed and urgent – as if there were spirits listening to them from behind every door. "Is it Edward? Is it... the accident?"

Vehemently she shook her head to his guesses, her eyes fixed on his collar because she had forgotten how _open _it was until he was standing so close to her again. She was practically eye-level with his scars and the glinting golden chain that caressed them with every turn of his neck. But she had to keep her eyes there_, _because she knew one look at his face would bring everything spilling out.

Then again, it was so dark in the hall, she would probably not be in danger with just a peek...

"Was it something I said?"

Her eyes met his just as he questioned her, his face consumed by shadows, his gaze aglow with ardent regret.

"No."

His hands clutched fervently at her sleeves, willing her to hear his every word with the lulling force in which he uttered them. "Edward _will _come back, I can promise you—"

"It isn't _that_," she persisted, nudging his chest to stop his flow of useless words.

"You can tell me," he continued to remind her. "You can tell me anything." The words sounded so temptingly intimate when he whispered them in the darkness. She almost gave in. If she had been looking into his eyes, she probably would have.

"You don't understand," she refuted shamefully, already regretful that she had chosen to close herself off from him in this way. "You can never understand what I've been through. You've never so much as _scratched _a human, Carlisle."

"Then this _is _about—"

"I don't want to talk about it!" she hissed, angry that he was making her repeat herself. "You won't understand."

All of a sudden he was insisting again, his hands treacherously strong on her arms, his voice poisonously passionate, not a single fracture in the fierce flow of his accent.

"Then _help _me to understand, Esme. Tell me these things. For God's sake, _tell _me how much it hurts you. _Tell _me how much it haunts you..." Even in the dark, his eyes were filled with light, like candles burning behind brown stained glass. And he punctuated the entire display with an irrefutably gentle whisper, "_Tell me_."

But she could not tell him. She could not tell him how every time he dared to care for her, every time he impressed his faith upon her, every time he looked her in the eyes and told her she would make it through, she only wished for an end to it all. She could not tell him how she longed for him though she did not deserve him. She could not tell him how every time she remembered her long lost son, she remembered what it was like to lose everything she had ever loved. And she wished she did not have to love _anything _because she feared it would happen again.

She could not tell Carlisle these things. So she was silent.

"No? You have nothing to say?" He was skeptical.

She shook her head, feeling the motion was slowed in time. The beds of her eyes were thick and clotted with venom. Her throat was so tight it was wound like wire.

"Fine," he murmured his defeat. One painfully hard look into her face and he pulled his hands away, two steps toward the staircase. "But know this: You do not deserve to bear this burden alone, Esme."

She watched him walk down the stairs in the pace of a human, walking away from her, and she could not help but believe every word he had said.

Her hands twisted over her mouth as she blinked back the prickle of hot, angry venom tears. He _knew _what he was doing to her. He _knew _she would not be able to resist him so easily.

She could hear the uneven pattern of his breath from the hall below. She heard him open doors in his quest to reach the East wing of the house, every step sure and measured.

The feelings were already churning inside of her, already morphing themselves into words. She felt her lips start to tremble and her mind start to spark, and suddenly the need for company was imperative. She needed to be in his presence before the words came tumbling out.

Her feet took the same path his did – down the stairs, through the hall, pushing doors out of her way until she found him. He was seated on the floor in the greenhouse, his feet resting on the shallow step below as he stared at nothing in particular, probably worried over what she would say to him when she found him.

She opened her mouth so that he would not worry anymore.

"I felt him. The moment I...did it." Her voice was vacuous, but her emotions were confined, only to her eyes.

Carlisle turned and looked up at her, bewilderment so beautiful on his face.

"I felt Charles," she stated.

Carlisle swallowed, unable to speak, but his silence spoke for him.

"I'd never felt so _angry _before," Esme revealed, just as astonished by the echo of that feeling as she tried to describe it. "It was like every shred of my resentment for him became the driving force behind it all. I felt like... like I was killing _him._" She relived the moment in her head, but the threat to lose herself in the memory was no longer there. She could control these feelings and sensations, but she could still not describe them. "It felt so... _so_..."

Remarkable. Empowering. Seductive. Glorious.

But she could not say these things to Carlisle. She could not even say them to herself.

He rose from his place on the steps to walk up to her, and he took her hands into his to hold them against his chest.

"Can you not see how it wounds me to see you this way?" It was like she had not heard his voice for years, when really it had been mere minutes. How she wished his voice were a blanket that she could draw around her. It would feel so warm, so soft.

"I see it," she sighed sincerely, a faint note of desperation carrying her words.

His chest swelled at that note in her voice, and his hands pressed hers tighter against him, so tight it almost hurt. She thought he might have accidentally crushed her if he hadn't been as careful as he was. That might have felt wonderful.

"I only want you to feel safe," he whispered, his voice like a warm, deep ocean. "This life is not an easy one. I know that. But you never need to face it alone."

His scent was virile and enveloping. He was caressing her with his closeness. All the care he had ever shown to anyone in his life could be felt in his hands as he held her. He was offering to her everything of himself in just that touch.

His grip on her just solidified their exchange with all the more potency. She could feel her revealing words traveling through her hands into his. And she trusted that he would keep them safe and secure. He would bear half the weight of her burden so that she would not need to be on her own in the struggle.

She tilted her head back as he stroked his fingers over her palms, their hands caught in such a strange little tangle that she could not fathom _how _he was touching her in that way. But somehow he managed.

Their eyes met for a moment, communicating pity and sadness and understanding and a little bit of hope.

"I'm afraid," she confessed, her voice quivering under his gaze. "The uncertainty...it frightens me."

He pulled her into him, took her between his arms, tucked her head beneath his chin and held her tightly.

"Oh, Esme. You must know how deeply I care for you," he murmured against her hair, his hands sliding down from her shoulders to her wrists. "I would do everything in my power to help you through even the darkest of times."

Her lungs shuddered in relief while her heart shivered with pity. It was unfathomable to her how Carlisle had suffered these very darkest of times without the hand of another to guide him.

"How did you ever survive this alone?" she whimpered into his chest.

"None of us are ever alone, Esme. God was with me when no one else was, and He is here with me now. He is with _you_, whether or not you choose to believe so."

Here, Esme realized, she could never bring this same, circular argument to rest. Carlisle was bound to this faith, sturdy as the rocks beneath the waterfall. Nothing could drown the passion of his enlightenment, not even the bloody evidence of her sins.

There was something so blindingly, frustratingly beautiful in this.

Her traveling fingers grazed the impression of the cross beneath his collar, and she quietly pulled them away, disturbed by the rush of silent power that emanated from the small golden symbol.

"I'm so confused, Carlisle," her feeble sobs disappeared like flakes of dust into the strength of his embrace.

"I know... Oh, I know, Esme." She could hear the ages of _his_ unanswered confusion in the waves of his voice, and somehow they comforted her, just for that moment. He was so sure of himself now, and if he could reach the top of that mountain, there must be hope for her. "Believe me, there will be an end to it all."

When her sobs had melted away, he carefully tipped her chin up to look into his eyes, and she did not resist him.

He silently guided her down to sit beside him on the steps, ensconced by the vines of dying green leaves. For once, her instinct was not a betrayal, as it led her to settle with ease into Carlisle's arms once again. She leaned her head onto his shoulder as he whispered unordered words of comfort into her hair.

There he held her, until the clouds had covered the early morning sun, wrapping them in a loving blanket of gray light. And the world got a little bit smaller every time his arms tightened around her.

* * *

_**A/N: **__I'd love to hear what you thought about Esme's behavior in this chapter. She's going through a lot of different emotions at once, and on top of everything else, Edward seems to be going through a mysterious torment of his own. Is Carlisle doing enough to help and reassure her, or is he perhaps past the point of truly understanding the troubles Esme is going through as a result of her accident? _


	34. When it Rains it Pours

**Chapter 34:**

**When it Rains it Pours **

* * *

The shimmer of his hands was soothing beneath the storms. His palms were smooth and pale, dusted with delicate gray glitter when the light passed over him. She would open her eyes to glance down at them every so often, just to be sure he was still there…

He would let his hands stroke across her shoulders, and his sighing would soothe her troubled heart.

"I wish I could fall asleep," she murmured into his chest.

He was silent and still, but his chin rubbed lightly against the side of her head, and she thought it felt a little bit like an agreement.

Her finger was idly twisting his shirt, and because he didn't notice it, she kept doing it. The fabric felt softer the longer she twisted.

"Edward's a fast runner. He should be home soon," she muttered unconvincingly to herself.

Carlisle hummed, but this time Esme wasn't sure if it sounded like an agreement.

For the first time since they'd settled here on the cold steps, she looked up into his face.

He was weary-eyed, but the darkness in his gaze was marred by restless ripples. His eyelashes looked heavy, and the scars on his neck were deeper up close, like gashes of rose-colored paint stroked down his throat. He looked slightly ill. She wanted to let him lay down somewhere, with a pillow under his head and covers over his chest.

He was so sad. So pale. So beautiful.

The muscles in his throat trembled as he swallowed. "I… I want to tell you something." His voice sounded like wet porcelain.

Something deep in her belly braced itself in response to his soft-spoken proposal.

Her fingers reached for his jaw, but drifted down and away before they touched him. She had meant to give him some sort of encouragement, but decided it better to let him speak on his own.

His lips parted – so close, she could hear the plush moisture of the gentle sound as he prepared to speak.

But his words never came.

There was a shadowy battle in his eyes – clouds of distant smoke and sparks of last minute regrets. He searched her face in stiff-jawed silence, as if she could provide the inspiration he sought.

Mercifully, Esme offered aid to Carlisle in his silent struggle.

"About Edward?"

Carlisle just nearly winced as his face gave a flinch, in vague but perceptible disagreement.

Esme allowed her voice to assume its natural soothing depth. "About you...?"

He let the breath seep from his lungs in a long, graceful exhale as his eyes withered shut. As if the gesture required great bravery, he nodded slowly, deliberately.

Esme's heart was all over the place.

"What do you want to tell me?" She hadn't thought her voice could be any quieter, but it was.

He did not open his eyes, but the barest sign of a sad smile pinched his sweet pink lips as he let his head tilt aside. "So much..."

Her heart was lodged somewhere in her throat now.

"Why can't you?"

He shook his head a few times before he attempted to explain.

"I can only dream of the right words." His breaths were soft but labored, his voice husky with frustration. "I try to grasp them… but then they slip away from me."

His fingers tightened tenderly around her arm.

"Maybe I can help you find them," she offered, whimsically naïve.

The gentle golden lines of his brows arched in fragile pity. "No," he sighed, the pitch of his voice weak enough that the word weighed nothing. "Do not worry yourself, Esme."

She wanted to make passionate words with her lips – words that would refute him with the most loving enthusiasm – but her mind was lazy, and her emotions were sleepy. Before she realized it, he was stroking her cheek with his knuckle… Her eyes closed.

Esme felt her legs being lifted heavily from the cold, hard ground. The air was soft and cool around her as she floated upward, into his arms. It could have been an instant between the ground and the air, but for that instant, the length of time was somehow too generous.

He carried her to the sitting room and laid her down in the sofa. He built a fire – a very small, weak fire, because all they had left were scraps of wood. When he was satisfied with the gentle crackle of flames, he crawled back to kneel by her side.

"Now we're waiting for Edward?"

Esme didn't know why she felt the need to ask the question, but Carlisle had answered her without hesitation, without confusion.

"Yes."

A distant but wistful smile crossed her tired lips as her eyes closed and her head tipped back in repose.

"He'll come back soon," she supposed with an assuredness that rivaled her own unvoiced certainty.

"Yes," Carlisle agreed once more, gently.

Esme shivered, perhaps from the cold, or perhaps from sheer relief that they were slowly nearing absolution.

"You're so cold, Esme," the doctor murmured.

She opened her eyes for just an instant to see his face above her. His eyes were deep, lush with pity...but _pity _did not glisten with such radiance.

"Warm me."

She hadn't meant to say it. His eyes had forced the words straight from her mouth. She had been hypnotized.

His chest expanded in a strange, soldierly manner, breathing in a generous fill of air, as if preparing to submerge in the sea.

But instead of sinking, he rose to his feet, and disappeared into the neighboring room for less than an instant before he returned, a thick blanket draped over his arms.

He carefully tucked the woven cloth around her shoulders and smoothed it over her legs with his gentle hands. Curiously, Esme's eyes drifted over the intricate patterns in the fabric. The primal shapes and soft lines of earthen colors were soothing, and somehow made the blanket feel warmer.

"Where did this come from?" she asked, looking for any way to lighten the quiet that had fallen between them.

"A Native American woman I met many years ago," he recalled softly. "She made it for me as a gift for treating her ill son."

Esme's fingers fondly traced the woven procession of primitive figures in the blanket. "It's beautiful."

A luxurious pang filled her heart as Carlisle's fingers joined hers in their mindless tracing. He was clearly familiar with the pattern. She found herself wondering if his fingers had followed these same woven pictures, night after night with no one beside him to offer warmth.

Her fingers settled at the fringed end of the blanket, lingering for no particular reason as Carlisle's tracing fingers neared hers…

The suggestion of his touch was enough to bring her heart thundering back to life beneath her breast. She cold not prepare herself for the moment his fingers found hers in a gentle collision, and the surgeon's hand enveloped hers.

"I feel warmer now," she confessed contentedly, her eyes drifting shut once again. The comfort she received from such a small gesture of understanding affection was astounding.

From beneath her closed eyes, she could feel the tender tide of his breath across her knuckles, as he moved to hold her hand tight against his chin.

"You don't speak very much, Carlisle," Esme observed in a delicate voice.

She felt a silken tickle of sad eyelashes brush against her skin, and her heart wept for the doctor and his helpless curse of silence.

"I am a quiet man by nature, Esme," he sighed, his voice low and hopeless, but full of acceptance for his minor shortcoming.

She would have to accept this, too.

"You are…"

And for the rest of the afternoon, and well into the evening, Esme pretended to sleep.

Carlisle would sometimes breathe beside her in a way that sounded ragged and ready, like he was on the edge of finally giving up those words he just couldn't grasp.

But he never spoke.

He held her hand, but he was silent. He preferred to communicate by touch.

Sometimes he held her tighter; sometimes he loosened. Sometimes he swept his thumb over her wrist…and she turned her face away because it made her cheeks burn.

When the hour was sufficiently late, Esme gifted the silence with meaningless words.

"I wish we could sleep," she whispered for the second time that day, thinking it was worth repeating.

Carlisle tugged timidly on the ends of his hair as he cocked his head curiously, lost in her guarded eyes. "So do I."

The fire died down, but neither of them moved to rekindle it.

******-}0{-**

Edward had not waited past the following day before he returned home, in all of his Prodigal Son-shaming glory.

After a strange and confusing night spent drenched in worry for the boy's return, his presence was like firelight in a deep, dark cave. Simple, but so hopeful.

Esme was the first to see him from the window, walking his crooked, gangly sort of walk up the yard. He looked so ready to face the world again, so renewed, so strong – and his subtle strength inspired her after a bleak night of regrets.

Without a thought, Esme threw herself from the back door and wrapped the boy in her arms. His height made it wonderfully difficult, but she possessed him – all of him – in that embrace.

Even more miraculous was the feeling that he was _accepting _this embrace. He accepted her need for him, and she felt that he needed her as well. She could care less why he had left in that moment. All that mattered was that he was here in her arms again; that he _wanted _to be here.

"Never leave me again, Edward," she whispered, sounding too much like a hysterical mother as she buried her face in his shoulder, swallowing his scent, holding him much too tightly. "Never."

Instead of speaking the promise out loud, all he did was hold her tighter.

The feel of Edward's embrace was, in that moment, just as thrilling as Carlisle's had been, but it was such a different kind of thrill. She savored it nonetheless.

But she knew these shadows that hovered above them would not lift so quickly.

If Esme had thought she had seen the coldest of shoulders after Annaliese's death, she could not have been more wrong. Edward had practically bolted himself into the music room, and he refused to show the halls his handsome face for days, blocking out Carlisle's weak pleas for reason behind closed doors. He spent his precious time thrashing together vile compositions as only a seventeen-year-old vampire musical genius would. His late favorite was a dark, manic waltz – evil minor notes cascading like fire and panic all over the place. A brief interlude of glory and victorious major chords, then he delved right back into hell in F minor. As if he were saying: "_You see, even my happiness so quickly becomes agony._"

That piano of his had long ago lost its virginity to his restless hands.

Esme watched a little bit more of Carlisle's patience chip away every time Edward ignored his request to speak. Blond hair that was once combed to perfection each morning now never lasted more than a few minutes past its impeccable state. The doctor's fingers spent more time on the top of his head than they did on the surface of his desk.

The hospital was furious with the unprecedented absence of the invaluable Doctor Cullen, and their daily unanswered telephone calls were evidence for this.

Fruitlessly, Esme tried to console Carlisle, telling him Edward would soon come around, that things would be back to normal between them before he knew it. But it was not very easy to say these things when she was still recovering from having killed a child herself.

Sometimes Esme found it therapeutic to roam about her room like a tormented spirit and toss the bed sheets all across the floor. Trampling them was somewhat satisfying for reasons she didn't care to understand. She was acting like a hormonal adolescent herself. Sometimes she thought that Edward went about dealing with his spite in a more mature manner than she did.

Esme was ashamed to say that Edward's distance had permitted her temptation for trespassing to overtake her good sense. Of course, she blamed Edward for not being there to keep her in order, but really she had always been tempted, from the very first time she snuck through the doors.

She invaded Carlisle's privacy when he finally decided to tend to the hospital. His study was in disarray. Her heart hurt to see it like that.

Only one thing stood out to her in the dreary morning light. It was sitting on his desk with two silver dimes, a broken pocket watch, and a spilled bottle of pills.

It was a simple, carved relief of Christ's face, with the words "_Kyrie Eleison_" engraved in the bottom plaque. The face itself was long and full of sorrow, the eyes weeping tears of wood grain and lips loose in a silent cry. It was terrifying, like most religious objects seemed to be. Perhaps it was true that those things religious in nature truly did frighten the damned.

But beneath it was a piece of paper, not crumbled like the ones she usually saw on his desktop, but straight and pressed. On it, these words were written in sapphire blue calligraphy:

_What shall I render to the Lord, for all His bounty to me?_

The lines of his handwriting were clean and gentle in their languid looping – the capital letters held a commanding presence about them, more carefully rendered than the rest. There was a small teal smudge on the question mark, perhaps where his hand had accidentally passed over it. She smiled weakly at the thought of Doctor Cullen making rounds at the hospital, oblivious to that smear of blue ink on his thumb. No one but her would have known where it came from. But they could wonder.

Foolishly, she held the square of paper to her heart, breathing in the heady scents of the ink and of _him_. His scent was so familiar now, but it never lost that quivering thrill as it flushed through her lungs. Like the first breath of springtime, cool and captivating. Fruitful but fading.

She was lost for a little while as moments of icy diatribe entered her mind, echoing as if in a cave. It was sublime, strange, but soothing.

_Carlisle._

She could think nothing but his name. How perfectly it suited him. How clean and soft and loyal the name sounded. How swiftly the syllables blended into each other, like air into light into water. The first, the second, the third.

He made it so plain where he found his faith from. His inspiration was scattered all over the house, in every corner and on every shelf. She could hear his hopeful words of comfort seeping through from several nights ago. Every word he spoke was a promise that she had done so little so deserve.

Esme clutched that mysterious note tighter to her breast, willing the humble power of his faithful script to move into her heart. She remembered his endless comfort from the night before, remembered the way he silently insisted that faith in God was the answer to everything.

This was very sad, she thought. So sad that her eyes felt teary when she placed everything back where it belonged.

She would long for him all afternoon, and when he returned to the house, she would have to linger a fair distance away, to resist the urge to take his face between her hands and sweep her fingers lovingly over his cheeks. The silken stone of his pale profile would taunt her while she watched him move about in the dim light of the hall. She ached to touch him all the more, remembering the way he had held her so tightly before. So tightly, without precedent.

He would smile at her, and her stomach would tighten, and she would force herself to smile back. He might say something kind to her – some sort of reassurance, like he always seemed to be giving her lately. He would murmur the words in a voice that she could not help thinking would be more fitting if he were sharing a pillow with her in bed...

He was too gentle, too patient. He never grew tired of being that way. Even when everything around him was a mess.

Dear Lord, _everything_ was such a mess. Her bedroom, Carlisle's hair, Edward's compositions. Even the weather was messy.

A cold army of rainstorms passed through their region over the course of a few depressing days, the sky rolling over them like gray sand dunes, smooth and waving and ominous. One morning, Esme happened to glance out her bedroom window and see Edward's tall young body, bare-chested and frozen still, all alone at the shore of the lake...in the middle of a thunderstorm. Silver sheets of rain pelted his impermeable white back like nails. His inability to respond to the torture and his disconcerting immobility had ignited both concern and pity in her heart. Even while she watched him standing alone in the storm, she had the distinct feeling that another pair of eyes was watching the boy just as steadily, just as worriedly from one of the windows below her.

Edward handled his depression in the very same way Carlisle once had.

Did he even realize how they were so obviously _meant _to be father and son?

Esme never dared to ask the boy what it had all been about. Several hours later, after he was dried and mobile again, Edward was back in his music room, the mad scrape of his worn-down pencil filling the empty stanzas once again.

It was natural that he should need time to sort things out, but in Esme's particularly motherly opinion, Edward had been too quiet for comfort. Of course he was shaken up from the events of the last few days as they all were, but even so, he was just not himself. It worried her dearly, until she finally decided to confront the boy.

He was tending to his piano, his one true love, as Esme slipped into the music room without a knock of warning. Rain-streaked glass panes wept at the tragic songs that wound about the room. In the somber light of the watery windows his fingertips were raining over the keys, in splashes of ivory and black but never gray. He played crystalline songs that both haunted and disrupted the harmony of youth.

_Edward, I'm—_

"I know," he interrupted her thought, not bothering to tame the tide of his theatrical sonata. "You're worried about me." He chuckled deeply. "There's no need, you know. Everything is taken care of."

Now he was just being eccentric.

She furrowed her eyebrows even though he was not facing her. "What are you talking about?"

"Go back to your painting, Esme," he said with a tone that mimicked that of a weary father.

She crossed her arms defiantly. She may have been submissive, but she would not take such rude orders from him when something was so clearly not right.

"Edward..." She moved closer to the piano with a tentative step. "Why did you leave us? Why did you stay away for so long?"

"It wasn't so long, Esme," he reasoned with a casual tilt of his head.

She huffed dubiously. "Eight days?"

He released a long breath as he patiently dragged out the final chord to the song. "I needed to take care of something."

The silence that fell upon the room was steep and dry as he rose from the bench, a tension to his body that she had grown to recognize as a rare sign of nervousness.

"Take care of what?"

Edward finally turned to face her, his expression bland.

"He lives in Chicago now," he said softly.

Esme's head reeled with the puzzle his vague words presented her, but something in the cellar of her brain knew exactly what was coming.

"Or at least he..._resides _there." The most disturbingly dark smirk crossed his lips.

"Who?" she whispered, already knowing but refusing to believe it.

"Charles Evenson." Edward responded idly. He looked dreadfully handsome, all proud and tall and coolly powerful, uttering the full name out loud without fear.

The rain pounding against the windows outside became mute as it all sunk in. Esme could hardly speak as the venom began churning under her tongue. Something in her ribs was shaking, burning. "Oh...Dear God, Edward..._Tell me you didn't_."

His voice was faraway, muffled as if she were listening to him from under water. "I did," he said, straightening up, and she hadn't even realized he wasn't at his full height. "I did, Esme." He was impressively resolute.

"_Why?_" she sobbed in feeble outrage.

"Why?" he repeated the word as if it were filth he could not bear to taste upon his tongue. "For you! For justice!"

She recoiled at the victorious vocabulary, hands winding through her hair in frustration.

"I told you _not _to, Edward. I didn't want this_—_"

"But _I _did. I couldn't stand the thought of him, daring to breathe the same air as the rest of us somewhere out there. So I put him to rest," he finished with a delicate tip of his chin upward, as if it were nothing more than a polite 'farewell.'

She could only shake her head in disbelief.

"I took him quickly. He felt nothing." Edward's jaw was so tight she thought it might snap in half. "That monster should be grateful I gave him the mercy he didn't deserve."

Her heart felt like it was billowing between her lungs. "Why did you do have to go and do this, Edward? I love you, but I just don't understand..."

"It was the right thing to do," he declared unflinchingly, so persuasive in his stance that she almost doubted her own moral instincts.

It was no secret in her heart that Esme was brutally relieved by the news of Charles' death. But to celebrate it openly would have been more a crime than the one Edward had committed.

"How could you have thought it was right to _kill _him?" she emphasized, both hands on either side of her face to embellish her distress.

Edward was quiet for a moment, pretending to look thoughtful. He knew what his reason was, and he knew what he was going to say. Straightening his shoulders, he stared at her with his fierce obsidian gaze and told her why.

"Because Carlisle _knew_ I was going to do it." He enunciated the words slowly, with fine purpose. His faint smile was a mere decoration of bitter pride. "And he did nothing to stop me."

Before she could even react, the doors to the music room flew open with such force, one of the crystal knobs was sent shattering onto the tile. Dressed all in black, his skin was like incandescent snow, and his hair glowed platinum against the darkness.

"Do not make me the offender, Edward!" His eyes had darkened drastically, pooling like burnt cider. The glistening gold cross swung helplessly around his neck as he rushed to stand beside Esme, obliviously engulfing them both in the impaling sweetness of his venom scent.

Edward's chest puffed out defensively, holding his arm at a protective angle, as if preventing an oncoming attack. "You wanted it, Carlisle! You wanted it as much as I did—even more! Don't deny it!" he accused forcefully before lowering his voice to a hiss. "You fantasized about killing the bastard yourself!"

Esme caved her hands over her mouth in shock, too horrified to even gasp. Her gaze trailed up Carlisle's face to find his eyes flashing dangerously in the muted blue light. It was as if she had never truly seen him before. He was not so angelic there, swallowed by black fabric and shadow. He was only a frightfully handsome vampire. A vampire, but for once, not an angel.

"Please tell me that isn't true, Carlisle," she pleaded between shaky breaths.

Edward's eyes skewered expectantly to his father's face.

Carlisle's voice lowered to a clandestine volume, though there was no one else present to hear. "I am deeply ashamed to say it, Esme, but yes, it is true. I have entertained very violent thoughts about the man who abused you."

The unexpected confession, uttered in his sweet, unassuming voice sent a wicked sort of thrill through her. Edward had said they'd discussed a possible plot for revenge on the man, but it was never more palpable to her than it was now, hearing it firsthand through Carlisle's otherwise untainted lips.

He continued, "I ask God every day to relieve me of my weakness, but it is proving to be one of the most difficult sins I've yet to overcome."

Her eyes were wide with fascinated disbelief, yet Carlisle seemed unaffected by her reaction. It was like the truth _had _to come forth, and he had no control over it.

Not only had Carlisle thought of killing Charles himself, but he had not even had the decency to discourage Edward from carrying out the dirty work before it was too late. Regrettably, she had to wonder if Carlisle had purposefully allowed Edward to stay away for so long before insisting that they bring him back. Had he truly known where Edward had been all along?

"How could you?" she asked so quietly, not even a human with the sharpest ear could have heard her.

"How could I _not, _Esme?" Carlisle hissed back, suddenly deliciously vehement. She could nearly hear the pain of his voice being torn from his throat...and it stunned her. _"How could I not? ..._Tell me."

Something in Edward's eyes looked vibrantly satisfied by this, a little frightened, and above all more than impressed. He stared at Carlisle as if he didn't know him for just a split second, his jaw held firmly as if to hide his reactive emotions.

His eyes then flicked promptly to Esme, as if to gauge _her_ reaction to this shocking side of their sire, but she could not read the message in his gaze for the life of her.

Carlisle was still raging before her. "Do you honestly believe I possess some sort of _immunity _to such thoughts?" His breath was heavy, his eyes burning into her face, demanding her to _tell him _how he could not think sinful things about her abusive husband, and it was all so confusing and strange and infuriating, but at the same time nearly titillating to see him like this...

What could she possibly say to him? What could he _want _her to say?

But he was speaking again before she had the chance to guess.

"Do you know how many days I spent _praying _that he would meet his end for what he'd done to you?" His voice fell soft, but there was sharp bite to the tone – a nasty surprise, like stepping on a pin buried in a carpet.

Esme gasped as she felt the pinch. And the vulnerable hitch in her throat seemed to invigorate him further.

"You cannot imagine how _furious _it made me to think of him. I was sick to my stomach, Esme," Carlisle continued, even softer, but even sharper. "Oh, your mind cannot even begin to imagine..."

And for that moment, Esme was deeply frightened to admit, she truly believed that even _she_ could not begin to imagine the things Carlisle had thought.

Because as much as she despised Charles for what he had done to her, her resentment had never manifest itself in violent revenge. Even when she had the power herself to enchant it.

Undeniably pleased by these revelations, Edward interjected in a calm, stiff voice. "So there you have it, Esme. A pastor's son is just as prone to sin as _everyone else_."

"Edward..." She stared at the boy in shock, too surprised by everything she was hearing to react with more than a whisper.

Carlisle's hand gripped her arm warily from behind, for once not warm, but chilly to the touch. "Don't, Esme. It's all right."

Esme's lungs continued to charge away, and she had little idea as to whether it was because of the climbing frustration she read in Edward's gaze or the feel of Carlisle's clammy fingers gently pinching her soft flesh.

They must have caught each other's eyes just when the water reached a boil. Edward snapped.

"She still thinks you're infallible, Carlisle!" he laughed bitterly. "Dammit, tell her you're not! Tell her, or I will!"

"I've said all I am willing to say, Edward!" Carlisle expelled the words like they were poison, struggling to restrain a roar. "Would you have me lay my mind in its entirety before Esme as I do so freely for you every day?" He gestured a bit wildly with his hand between their bodies. In the instant he did it, Esme feared he was about to strike his son. "Have I no right to privacy in my own household anymore? Must I be willing to share every sinful thought I have out loud?"

A zodiac of emotions crammed into the circle of just one of Edward's eyes. For a moment, he was speechless. And Esme didn't blame him.

Carlisle's every word felt like ice.

He turned his blond head sharply to look away in disbelief, and beneath his breath, he hissed, "This is ridiculous."

Edward threw his hands up in defeat. "Fine then! This wasn't about _either of you, _it was about _me,_" he reasoned, just on the brink of hysteria. "_I _wanted to kill Evenson. So _I_ went. And _I _killed him," he annunciated each word, clearly and precisely. "Does that settle everything?"

"No it does not," Carlisle stated gravely. "You _know_ it was wrong, what you did, Edward_—_"

"Oh, drag me to the confessional, Carlisle, why don't you?" He turned in a dramatic little circle with a pasty laugh, pausing to slam down the lid of his piano, then scraping his heel against the tile as he whipped back around to face them.

Carlisle only ignored his tactful theatrics. "Not only that Edward, but your judgment was despicable!"

"_Despicable?_ It was the right thing to do_—_the _just _thing to do!"

"You should not have done it!" Carlisle practically hissed. His hand tightened around Esme's arm, firing tiny shivers down to each of her fingers.

"_Why not_?" Edward bellowed in defense.

"We talked about _why!_" he reminded fiercely. "How could you just ignore that? As if that weren't enough, you ignored Esme's wishes as well!"

"She told me she didn't want me to leave, not that she didn't want him dead!" Edward argued.

"Regardless!" Carlisle snapped with startling immediacy, and Esme doubted he had really listened to the boy's words.

"Esme is _happy _that he's dead," Edward stiffly proclaimed. "Aren't you, Esme?"

Feeling the feverish fork of Carlisle's eyes on her face, she shook her head automatically, but it was no help to mask her thoughts, which were only screaming in affirmation.

"Don't lie, Esme," Edward's voice was dreadfully calm. "You can't hide your feelings from me. I know you're relieved that he's gone for good." His gaze hardened as he turned to his father. "_Carlisle _wanted it as well, so none of us are at fault, you see?"

"_All _of us are at fault," Carlisle sighed with aching persistence.

"Stop, Carlisle!" Edward shook his head indignantly. "Why can't you just accept that some people are better off in hell?" His eyes were overflowing with pity for his obviously disillusioned father figure.

Carlisle's hand finally released Esme's arm as he uttered desperately, almost brokenly, "Because it is not our place to decide who lives or who dies!"

Edward's face was glaringly triumphant. "But _you _can decide who to thrust immortality on whenever you wish!"

Carlisle's mouth fell open, hopelessly distraught and without refute as he found himself exquisitely trapped.

"You're contradicting yourself, Carlisle!" Edward pressed. "No matter how much you deny it, you're only going to keep hiding behind that mask of innocence."

"I'm trying to _change, _son!" Carlisle whimpered with suddenly pleading eyes, hand flush against his heart, the image of unrefutable sincerity.

"I don't _want _you to change!" Edward shook his head, half sobbing as he laughed at the irony. "We can't all be perfect! Don't you ever stop to think about how that makes _us _feel?" Esme felt his lean piano fingers brush loyally against her hand, but her own fingers were too weak to link them.

Carlisle's eyes flickered back and forth between them in confusion. His deep black gaze finally settled on Esme for a prolonged moment, and she cast her eyes down to the floor in shame.

Edward's voice was still rolling firm overhead. "Do you know why I _wanted _to end Charles so badly? Because _I love Esme_."

Esme's head shot up immediately to stare at Edward in wonder, as Carlisle's eyes went comically wide.

"It's only natural that I should want the one who abused her dead," Edward reasoned, his voice just beginning to show vulnerable hints of quivering. "And that is how I choose to show my love for her."

Esme took the moment to gaze adoringly into Edward's all-too-genuine eyes. He acknowledged her with a weak exhale and a few blinks to restrain invisible tears, but not a smile.

"But you should not have gone so far as to actually _do it, _son." Carlisle calmed himself with a beaten sigh of grudging understanding. He dared to reach for Edward's narrow shoulder before the boy shrugged out of his way.

"It's too late now," Edward whispered broodingly, perhaps even regretfully.

"Yes, it is," Carlisle conceded, his doctorly tone marred by a cold quiver of residual anger. "And I will not dwell on it any longer. You have made this choice, and you will learn from it."

Edward stood directly across from him, still fuming beneath his furiously statue-like façade. His eyes were sparkly, and his jaw was strained as if he desperately wished to say something. But he was only silent for a long, insignificant moment before he turned to walk slowly out the door. His feet were lethargic, as if in a daze of defeat.

Esme almost went after him.

"No matter what you do, I will always love you, my son," Carlisle whispered painfully, just before the door closed behind him.

He could have said the words in his head. Edward would have heard him.

But Carlisle had chosen to say this in the open. As if he wanted _her _to hear it just as much...

Esme had no idea what to do with herself, having taken in so much at once. Her heart had been melted and frozen, then melted again too many times during their fast-paced and frightening exchange, and now she felt more hopeless than before. An irrational part of her worried that there would be no way to fix this... and then she looked up and saw Carlisle's eyes.

"Esme, I cannot tell you how—"

"Don't," she interrupted him forcefully, quickly calming her tone to a gentler one with effort before shaking her head.

Her eyes fell on the cross that lay against his chest. So rarely did he allow it to be seen. It was kept hidden beneath his collar, just as his scars were, yet tonight it seemed to glow against the black he wore, a holy pinpoint in a void of darkness. Somehow, after all she had seen, it suddenly seemed out of place there, around his neck.

He was waiting for her to continue speaking, but she realized she had no words to say to him. She could not bear to look at his face.

All along, Carlisle had known precisely why Edward had left them. He had _let _Edward go. He had _let _him stay away. He had _let _her worry over it.

He had even let her believe that _she _was the reason Edward had left in the first place.

Carlisle had lied to her.

All to protect himself. To keep his own thoughts a secret from her.

"Please..." he murmured insistently, clearly asking for her to hear him out – and her heart could not refuse him.

She submitted herself with a quiet sigh, but still did not meet his eyes.

"Edward told you that I let him go," he began hesitantly, the trembling in his voice so disconcerting. "But it is so much more than that, Esme. The idea that Evenson could be..." He could not finish the words. "...it was appealing to me. I'd wanted him gone for so long that I didn't have it in me to stop Edward before it was too late."

His hand came forward before she could take a breath, and he captured hers with quivering fingers. "Now I realize... I truly didn't _want _to stop him from killing Charles."

His touch was not firm and protective now. It was uncertain and needy, almost like a child's.

There was no way to reverse the chain of events as they had already been carried out. She could pout and put it all behind her, sweep the dust under the door and never look back. And that was so appealing when it shouldn't have been. She wasn't ready to accept that her life might always be like this – a wild, edgy game full of murders and lies and deception and unease. Esme had to wonder if she would ever know true comfort and security ever again.

Carlisle glanced down at their loosely linked hands and shook his head, a jerking motion of mixed sorrow and anger. "I'm so sorry this had to happen now, of all times..."

His hand nudged a bit in her grasp, and she lifted her fingers slightly in uncertainty. She wanted to hold him tighter, and she surmised that all of his nervous fidgeting was a silent suggestion for a more substantial touch... But there was something stopping her from taking his entire hand between hers and warming him as he desperately desired.

"It never rains, but it pours," she murmured bitterly, leaving his hand to the very tips of her fingers. She looked up at him from underneath her lashes.

His eyes did not change, not even a flicker to ripple the pity and apologies that subdued the tone of his gaze as his lips parted in preparation to speak.

"Maybe this was...for the best?" It shouldn't have been a question, but he uttered it with a tentative trill at the end, and it drew forth a furious pang from the bottom of her heart.

She had no strength left to be outraged at his words. Instead, she looked upon his face with a furrowed brow and wilting wonder written on her heavy eyes.

He took a deep breath, pressing the air through his trembling lips, and his eyes narrowed in quiet pain as he looked humbly to the ground.

"That sounds awful," he reprimanded himself in a hushed tone of regret. But his gentleness was not spared, even for himself. "Oh, Esme, please forgive me. I have done so little to make you feel safe. I've ruined everything. I've..."

"No," she interrupted him, her voice chillingly hard. "I'm not angry with you, Carlisle."

But there was a tiny spark of outrage, buried deep in the back of her mind. She knew deep down, this was a lie.

Carlisle didn't seem to believe her either.

"I shouldn't have said those things," he spilled softly, shame flinching in his brow. "I've frightened you."

He was digging the hole deeper with every word he spoke. He _had_ frightened her, but to confirm this in front of him would only serve to bury him alive.

But now... She _wanted _to bury him.

"That isn't what frightens me, Carlisle," her voice was stiff, steady, calm before the storm. "Your _thoughts_ are not what frighten me."

His eyes were rigid. He knew what was coming.

She could have tried to bottle it up, but if he had the right to show _his _temper, than she had just as great a right to show _hers. _

"You let me believe Edward left because of what _I_ had done…"

Just as his gaze did in that moment, the cross around his neck lost its glimmer of light.

Throwing her fury into the hand she still held, she gasped in helpless rage. "How could you do that to me?" Her voice shattered into tiny pieces. He frantically tried to pick the pieces up, but his fingers were already bleeding.

He was not talking. He seemed incapable of it then. His throat was cording, and his eyes were lush with a black flood of endless pain. He was swallowing pins and needles.

"Esme, please... I..." His eyes squeezed shut, and they were dark as the crypt when he opened them again. "I never wanted this to happen. I wanted to protect you—"

"Protect me from what? _The truth_?" she spat scathingly.

"I never thought of it in such a way, you must believe me!" He was forcing his passion through that connection of their hands. Still, their hands refused to part while they spoke against one another. "I thought that Edward and I could have peace of mind, and you would never have to know."

"So I have no right to know of your plotting to kill my husband?"

Nearly before she had finished the words, Carlisle broke in with a ferocious, almost triumphant whisper. "Charles Evenson is _not_ your husband."

For the briefest shard of a second, Esme was overwhelmed with the urge to kiss Carlisle. Forcefully.

But that urge was smothered in the sick weight of what he had done, and just as rapidly, she could not even fathom it.

Her words were low and blank as she spoke them, staring straight into his eyes. "No. Not anymore."

Carlisle's gaze rippled, fine blond lashes withering with the effort to shield the hard black pools beneath. "He _never_ was." His voice was unrecognizably deep, almost satisfied, the tremors smoothed by a sudden wave of confidence. "You wore no ring when I found your body..."

His eyes dropped as his thumb grazed her bare marriage finger. Unable to fight the chill of exhilaration she felt at his touch, she wrenched her hand away in shock at his forwardness.

"But why _kill _him?" she demanded, her voice weakening by the moment. "Why bother? _Why_, Carlisle?"

"I never thought it would happen," he answered steadily, eyes suddenly sad. "We dismissed the idea months ago, but when Edward saw you, heard your thoughts of Charles that night..."

She covered her ears childishly, not wanting to hear a single word that would remind her of the horrific events that had caused it.

"Listen to me!" He seized both her hands and folded them between his again, forcing her to face him. Too close.

"Why did you want to keep me in the dark, Carlisle? Why couldn't you just _tell _me?"

His eyes flashed. "I didn't want you to be afraid."

She glared at him challengingly, almost knowing there was more he was struggling to say.

His whisper grew strong as his eyes glittered with a new sheen of venom. "For God's sake, I was _selfish_, Esme. I wanted to keep you from seeing _my_ fault in this." His sobs were infuriating and a little pleasing, but somehow they broke her heart.

"Now you know the truth..." he exhaled in an almost sing-song manner, his voice a dark lullaby. He was shaking all over, and the scent of his venom was making her ill. "So please, Esme. I am begging you from the very depths of my heart. _Forgive me_."

He was trying, so discreetly, with such despairingly sweet hesitation, to encourage her hold on his hands to tighten. She could tell quite plainly now that it was not just her imagination.

Irrational fear trickled inside of her at the introduction of that touch. She could not indulge herself in it, no matter how he may have wanted it from her. It was dangerous.

Esme had seen the shudder of Carlisle's temper set free. She had seen an entirely _un-holy _side to her saintly doctor. She had heard his voice raised in defense, watched his eyes fall black, listened to him admit his sins to her from his delicate lips...

And still, she wanted him. Still, she ached for him, almost more than before.

This side to him was, beneath her tender fear, just as appealing as the angelic shell that surrounded it. And she didn't know why.

This horrified her.

Forgive him, she would. But the weight of forgiveness could be carried by just one simple word, without crushing either her pride or her heart.

"Fine," she whispered, cold and blunt.

Carlisle's chest shook with violent sobs. Esme's lungs quivered as she breathed in his imploring scent, and her heart screamed as she watched him struggle like a drowning man in his agony.

"Esme..." His voice was broken, begging.

More needed to be said, but neither was ready to say it.

"Please… Tell me we can put this behind us." Now _she _was pleading him, trying to alleviate the intimacy of that innocent touch before it was too late, to spare herself the agony of only losing it over and over again.

His fingers curled beneath hers with all the pleading pressure he could dare to impose on her, and she could not bear the crestfallen color on his face as he failed to nod. Coldly, she forced herself to withdraw her hands.

"I don't want to speak of this, ever again…" she excused herself all but silently, slowly backing away from him.

She told herself it was only a simple trick of the darkness that made his eyes look so full of tears. He could not cry, and neither could she – but that threatening prickle behind their eyes was the same. He was not going to look at her in that most heartbreaking of ways, with that weary furrow on his brow and that helpless sinking of his shoulders. And she could swear that his chin had fallen beneath that pout in the most delicate of trembles…

Dangerous. He was so dangerous.

So she left him alone there, beside the abandoned piano and the ghostly curtains and the tear-stained windows. The rain pounded in a taunting staccato on the roof as she scaled the staircase and tossed herself onto her bed, sobbing silently.

The image of his face, exquisitely distraught, was imprinted like soft ice in her mind. He continued to taunt her with that expression even when she could no longer see him. He was so desperate, conflicted, vulnerable, yet he was still trembling with anger and rage. Just days ago, these emotions seemed impossible to ever be touched by her Carlisle...

She imagined how she could have comforted him, if she only had found and seized the criminal courage. She would have taken his hand and pressed it to her empty heart, then taken that helpless pout between her hands and kissed it with all her strength until she felt the trembling of his lips melt away under the force of her passionate violations.

But even this, she could never have done for him.

She knew he would retreat to his study, as he always did, and he would sink to his knees somewhere and ask God to smite their home with the light of forgiveness. Carlisle believed every conflict could be resolved by candles and prayers and holy words of wisdom. He believed that, but Esme did not.

It was not the injustice of her own life that caused her faith to dwindle so; it was watching the way Carlisle tried so hard to do nothing but good for those around him, and in the end the kind doctor received no comfort from his God. Where was the justice? Where were the blessings? What had this poor soul done to deserve such transgressions against him?

Was Carlisle truly being punished for his sins by _her _refusal to accept his touch?

Surely God had a better heart than that. Surely _God_ was not so petty.

But here they were, with no one to guide them, each more lost than the other.

It was because of this, she decided, that perhaps Edward had been right all along. God may have been there for them once, and maybe He was still watching them now. But He did not offer His care for them. Was it possible that they were no longer His children, no longer His proud creations? If only Carlisle could consider this...

And in case God failed him this time around, Esme could have been there to catch Carlisle when he found himself falling.

It should not have been shocking to her, but it was. Carlisle was so... lost.

He was _needy._ He was alone in his faith, and he was a tragic mess. He was a man whose soul had been crushed. A man whose heart had reached its breaking point so many times, and somehow managed to mend itself. But how long could he go on this way? What could she give him that would heal him once and for all?

She could have offered him comfort when he needed it from her. She could have offered him _love _when he needed it, her sincerest words of forgiveness when he asked it of her. And oh, he would have returned those comforts to her ten-fold, knowing the gratitude of his tender heart.

_That _was why she could not have it.

Out of all that she could _give _to Carlisle, Esme wanted too much more from _him _in return. Too much more that she did not deserve.

But this was fine.

Because Carlisle believed he did not deserve it either.

* * *

_**A/N:**_

_To read Edward's story of the night he went to kill Charles Evenson you can read "Chapter 13: The Worst Curse of All" in __Behind Stained Glass__._

_I have also written a chapter for __Behind Stained Glass__ that tells a bit of what happened in Carlisle's mind after Esme left him here. It is fairly important, so I would recommend reading it before you read the next chapter. It has been posted under "Chapter 14: An Exploration of the Heart."_


	35. Silent Burn

_**A/N**__: To read how Edward and Carlisle made amends after their confrontation, you can read Chapter 15 of __Behind Stained Glass__. If you prefer to read things chronologically, then I would read the companion chapter first, because it actually occurs before the events in this chapter. _

* * *

**Chapter 35:**

**Silent Burn**

* * *

Esme stayed in her room for days, twisting silk between her fingers as her mind played taunting images of Carlisle's face in his flash of icy anger, a tear of violent vulnerability. She heard his voice in her head, but sometimes she swore it was real.

She listened to silence. She listened to birds chirping idly outside her window, and the carefree sounds seemed to mock her in her agony. She laid still for a long time, wanting them to stop, but when they finally did, she wished she could hear them again.

She listened to Edward, mostly. He was the only one who made his voice heard. Sometimes Carlisle would say a word or two, but she never understood him.

She didn't know how it happened, but somehow father and son were talking again. They must have been.

Maybe they had never truly stopped talking. Carlisle, no matter how silent he chose to be, was always communing with his son through his thoughts.

The sound of Edward's mumbles was nice. Carlisle's silence was comforting.

It was so quiet in the house. It reminded her of the inside of a vast palace – the vacancy seemed to request complete and utter silence. They feared their noises would disturb the stiff beauty of the interior, that sound waves would somehow sweep the shine away from the extensive flooring...

After just nearly two days since their fight, Edward came to Esme's door. She knew it was him right away. His scent still sung of the woods, and his footsteps were heavier on those steps than the doctor's were.

And, as much as she despised to acknowledge it, there was one crucial difference in Edward's approach which clearly distinguished it from Carlisle's.

There was nothing sizzling softly in the pit of her stomach when Edward walked up those stairs.

That should not have disappointed her.

But for God's sake, it did.

She did _not _want Carlisle to come to her door. She didn't want it at all. Every time she thought she heard _his _footsteps in the foyer, pondering the first step toward her, her entire body pulsed out the word, _"No, no, no, no..."_

But there was something buried under her vehemence, like the creeping curve of a smile, just at the suggestion of Carlisle's approach. Deep down, she wanted him at her door.

But it was Edward standing there now.

He said he was sorry.

Esme had not been waiting for an apology from him, but she'd gotten it anyway. Graciously, perhaps a little selfishly, she opened her door and received it with open arms.

Edward tried mumbling something against her head as she held him, but she didn't quite catch what he was trying to say. He knew she hadn't comprehended anything. When he finally looked down at her, her eyes were blank, but they were streaming with love and forgiveness. For her son.

Edward swallowed hard, and Esme touched his face.

"You need to talk to him," he said.

And she turned him away.

She did not ask how Edward and Carlisle had made amends. She did not know how she could have missed such a miracle. Had her hibernation been so close to slumber?

Edward did not press the matter. His eyes were kind as he slipped out into the hall, but his face was worn with a pity that so closely resembled Carlisle it made her want to cry.

Esme closed the door behind him and pressed her hands to the wood, feeling the sturdy enclosure and reveling in the way it shut everything out. She felt like a fair princess confined to her tower – she could play this little game – she could pretend it _was _all a game... but when the hour struck the clock again, she was reminded that it was all too real.

Every hour was like a hollow scream in her ears. She wanted them to stop chiming, stop ticking, stop laughing. Her hands mutilated the beautiful blue curtains of one window, and she laid the shreds to rest in the fireplace she had never used. It looked like art.

How tragic that no one would appreciate it but her.

Edward passed her door every hour. He was a vigilant night watchman, her honorable soldier in the dim times of day. He knew she wanted him there – just a casual pass through the hall every so often to reassure her. Sometimes he lingered in the foyer at the foot of the stairs, thumping his heel against the first step, just to send her a signal of camaraderie. But he never lingered for long.

That very night, though, the footsteps that shuffled in the foyer did not belong to Edward.

Esme's heart was tumbling about anxiously in her chest, wondering if and when he would start to climb the stairs. She could hear every one of his sighs as they echoed in the hall. She could even hear the trembling of his fingers as they brushed through his blond hair.

He took in a deep breath, and in an instant she ran to defend herself, bracing her hands around the door handle he had broken several times already. He ascended the steps slowly though he could have scaled them in a blur. It was almost as if he were trying to torture her, drawing it out...

Her grip on the door handle tightened.

She decided she was going to be stern with him. She was going to chastise him when he tentatively touched the handle. She was going to be adamant that he leave.

And she was.

He never even said anything. Nothing. Not even a whispered plea. Not even her name.

She missed the sound of his voice so much that she felt ill.

It broke her heart to send him away, and yet something about it made her feel a certain power over him. She needed to claim this power, to feel that she had control in some aspect of her life. She could barely control her own instincts, but she was practically controlling _him. _

He seemed so vulnerable.

She made sure not to use his name. Instead, she addressed him as "Doctor."

It was so much easier to say than _"Carlisle." _One less syllable made it lighter. It was more crisp, more concise, no smoothed edges or faulty tricks of the tongue. No breath caught between the _L's, _no awkward twisting sensations in her throat. No temptation to let it linger, savoring it in her mouth before she used it to call for him...

"Please leave me, Doctor."

It was so easy to say.

She could practically hear the hurt in his footsteps as he walked away.

Her hands remained locked around the door handle for the rest of the night, just in case he came back.

When the morning came, she broke her hold. The house felt like a quiet palace again. The birds were singing redundant tunes outside on her balcony, and she tapped on the glass until they flew away.

While at the window, she saw Edward outside. He was seated on the steps leading out from the greenhouse, elbows resting on his knees, and one boot on his right foot. The other foot was bare. His face shimmered studiously as he stared at his folded hands.

He looked only a little bit sad. Mostly he looked thoughtful, like he was trying to solve a rather serious problem that was not his own.

Esme wanted to join him.

But the door that led outside gave her a nasty shock when she dared to touch it.

_'You are dangerous,' _it said. '_You must avoid the outside world, Esme. You must stay inside.' _

Her distraction with brooding Edward and admonishing doors had kept her from noticing the presence hovering in the hallway just outside her room.

She whipped around, startled, with no time to prepare for her own protection. That door handle was free for his manipulation. She could already hear his fingers firm against its glossy golden surface.

Carlisle leaned his head against her bedroom door. He whimpered to make his presence known, but she didn't acknowledge him.

"Please speak to me, Esme."

His voice sent a strong shiver through her, from her breast to her ankle. Hearing a full sentence from his throat after all this time was an exquisite shock.

"I don't have anything to say to you." She was not stern with him this time. This time, her voice was gentler, quieter. Her heart had taken pity on him.

He sighed. She wanted to take that sigh, and swallow it.

"I have much to say to _you_," he said, his voice so deep it sounded slightly rough.

_'Oh, tell me,' _her heart begged wildly. _'Tell me everything you have to say...'_

She was silent for a few moments that bled together like melting ice. She could do nothing but listen to him – his breathing like soft thunder, his fingers tapping methodically on the golden handle. Carlisle was blessed with unmatchable ambience.

Listening to his sounds made her want to see him. They made her wonder what color he was wearing, if his hair was tousled from stress, if his eyes were dark like glossy cedar, if his lips were pale from having nothing worthwhile to say, if the buttons on his collar were undone...

But only her pride had the gall to penetrate the silence. "I don't want to hear anything you have to say, Doctor."

He gasped softly at the stiffness of her refusal, and for a quick second she longed to take it back. But soon his fingers left the handle and his head lifted from the door. He left.

Then she wondered why she had sent him away.

She was fortunate that he did not give up on her. Any other man would have slung his pride over his shoulder and stalked off from whence he came, but not her doctor. She was grudgingly inspired by his persistence, but even more saddened by it, knowing that she had no choice but to refuse him over and over again.

Later that evening, Carlisle returned. He walked past her door, and she heard his breath hitch – as if the word was there, within his reach. She could sense his struggle, and a part of her itched to claw her way through the sturdy wooden door and help him find the words for which he pined.

But she never found the courage, so he never said the words.

Esme collapsed on her bed and listened to the sounds of the night. Two floors below, Edward murmured to a voice that never replied except in silence. She could not make out what was being said, but it didn't matter.

They wanted her to speak. They were plotting behind her back yet again, scheming for her own good. They were trying to orchestrate her happiness.

Esme didn't know what to think about this.

On the one hand it was infuriating. On the other, she loved them for it.

That she could be worth the effort, worth their concern to discuss endlessly while she was locked away was, regrettably, wonderful.

She listened to Edward's whispers as she held _The Geography of South America _open on her knees.

An unpleasant gloss of venom prickled in her eyes while her fingers traced the Eastern coastline of the map Carlisle had shown her months ago.

_"One day, Esme. We'll go there. Together."_

Her heart sank deeper and deeper as the echoes of his kind words thrummed in her memory.

"Never," she whispered.

Her dreams seemed so trivial now, so foolish. After everything they had been through, she couldn't imagine sojourning into exotic lands with Carlisle and Edward by her side. It just made her throat tighten and her stomach sink just daring to imagine it.

In a moment's whim of fury, she tossed the book carelessly against the wall so that all of its loose pages slipped out across the floor, and she darted to the balcony doors. A part of her wanted to break the door off its hinges as Carlisle had done...but there were enough messes to be cleaned up already.

She instead opened the door and walked gracefully out, letting the cool midnight wind caress her face.

She turned her nose to the air in a proud challenge to the scents the night had to offer, then on a sudden loss of reason, jumped to the ground and took off running. And she almost hoped that something would cross her path so she could kill it.

The blades of grass felt like cold, thin, divine fingers, brushing her bare heels as she ran. The lake was mumbling music in the distance, and she ached to sing with it. Night was brilliant – like the day, but more forgiving. She could be whatever she wanted in the dark. And if she failed, no one could see it.

Esme found a fox not too far from the lake. She skimmed about the edges of the moonlit water like a primal nymph, her hands on the ground, her feet nimble and naked in the earth. Her teeth collided with the hind leg of the animal as it scurried to save its life.

Esme savored the feeling of being a vampire in the darkness.

Despite how terrible it was, there was still something beautiful about it. That beauty, she assumed with a swift bite of shame, must have come from Carlisle.

If Carlisle had made her this way, then there had to be something _good _in it.

Her heart twisted at the thought of Carlisle's _goodness_. It was not as spotless as she'd once thought – this was a bittersweet truth. No man could be the epitome of perfection; not even Carlisle. At first this made her want to cry, but as she gave the truth time to sink in, it became less jarring, and more real.

Yes, Carlisle became more _real. _She had heard less of him lately, and seen even less than she'd heard. But out of his every fault a new stone was laid. He was being rebuilt, carefully, in the back of her mind.

A lump swelled in Esme's throat as her hands curled around the hide of the dead fox. The fleeting bouquet of its blood was losing its warmth, but she felt suddenly too ill to swallow it.

She turned her eyes up to the house on the hill, almost pleadingly, looking for eyes that might have been watching her, _hoping _to see his golden eyes peering through the glass. She absently counted the lit windows, noting that the lights in his study were far dimmer than the rest. Only candles, she remembered, as venom filled her eyes.

She missed the spiritual, smoky scent of those flames. She missed the way the fragrance of fire clung to _him. _It kept him company, made him warmer…

It was so lonely out here, so dark and frightening. She could hear the pitter patter of animal feet all through the forest, tossing about flustered warnings that there was a mad vampire woman on the loose. The woodlands were scurrying, trying to protect themselves from her. Because she was a beautiful monster, and her maker was not entirely good.

Esme's fragile heart shattered, the echo soft against her ribs. She wanted to see those dim lights in his study flicker as he extinguished the candles. She wanted Carlisle to break the doors apart and come running for her. With a tortured sigh, she imagined his unnecessary rescue, the pound of his feet growing stronger as he came closer, the raging waves of his breath as he struggled to find air in his frenzied search for her.

She would not let him find her right away. No, she would be stubborn. She would play ruthless and dangerous games with his quivering heart. She would run away and he would chase her down, perhaps all night long. And _then _she would let him catch her.

_Yes, then he could catch her_, she thought as her teeth pressed new patterns into the plump underbelly of the fox in her lap.

Her eyes drifted closed as the fantasy bloomed along with the blood in her mouth.

_When they reached the middle of the forest, his hands would snag her waist and he would turn her around before she could get away, his eyes blazing with terror and relief. He would shout at her, then he would whisper because his voice was too exhausted to continue shouting. He would whisper...angrily at first, seething with fury at her for frightening him, for running from him._

_Then his voice would grow softer the longer he held her. She would show him, with her absolute stillness, that she was not going to run away any more, and his anxiety would slip away with the last few shadows of daybreak. The sun would rise in the reflections of his eyes, and he would bring his cheek down, close to hers, letting their skin brush against each other, so he could feel that she was real. His arms would tighten around her, and maybe he would press her body into his, if he felt emboldened by fate's desperation... Maybe his breath would catch as he murmured into her ear, "Never run away from me again, Esme."_

And just as a touch, to elaborate the impossible, Esme took the fantasy one step further as the blood pooled around her tongue.

_Carlisle would turn his head the slightest bit, and by means of a lovely accident, his lips would collide with hers – startled then reckless. Then their tongues were dancing together, and their hearts were pounding though they were dead, and he held her so close that she could feel his body molding to hers, like hot plaster, slowly securing them in a permanent cast..._

The sequence ended with a harsh thump of her subconscious against her skull. The blood was nearly gone, and her mouth felt unpleasantly sticky inside. Her throat was blocked by blood, discouraging the whimpers that longed to break loose as she lost sight of that wistful realm behind closed eyes.

Taste was inadequate. Smell was weak. Touch was excruciatingly upsetting.

Her heart cried for Carlisle, but her throat cried for more blood.

Esme stared down at her soiled hands in disgust and wiped them down furiously on her skirt. When she finally turned them over, her palms were all pretty and pink.

"You're not the only one with blood on your hands," Edward's voice interrupted the shadows.

Esme's head whipped around to see the lanky youth, posed at a curious stand-still not too far behind her.

"Do not speak of it," she whispered fiercely.

He cocked his head to one side. "Hm. I thought by now you would have learned from Carlisle that suppressing never helps."

She crossed her arms over her chest, smearing blood carelessly over her sleeves.

"Do not tell me what I can or cannot learn from Carlisle."

Her heart and her tongue seemed to swoon in unison. The effect of having gone for so long without speaking his name was more brutal than she'd thought it would be.

Edward appeared unfazed, which was natural for him.

"I didn't realize you were thirsty," he smoothly shifted the subject. "I would have taken you to feed this morning." His eyes glided over the mess on the ground beside her feet.

"I like it better at night," she said quickly.

Edward lowered himself to his knees, his eyes still fixated on the bloody fox.

"Do you mind if I...?" His eyes turned up to her imploringly, and she could not refuse him.

With a brief nod of her head, she offered what was left for him to drink. He knelt next to the animal and settled his mouth in the neatly carved crescent her own had left behind.

"Thank you," he whispered after draining the last of the blood. He swiped the back of his hand over his lips and sat back against a tree, looking oddly exhausted. "My throat has been burning for days."

_My heart has been burning for days... _

Edward's eyes flashed in response to Esme's thoughts, but he put on a great act of pretending he hadn't heard it. He drew his knees up to his chest where he sat, and the gesture made him look very lonely to her. So lonely, in fact, that she decided to sit down beside him.

"I don't know how Carlisle can go for weeks without a drop of blood," he marveled in a softly bemused voice. "I tried to get him to hunt… He's dying of thirst, but he won't let himself drink." Edward's voice broke slightly, and that telltale slip of his sadness made her want to weep.

"Hm." She turned away in poorly feigned disinterest.

"It's your fault, you know."

She glared at him sharply.

_We've already made amends, _she said, the words firm in her mind.

But it was only a partial truth. The way she had left him that night after their confrontation had been less than commendable, no matter how estranged _she _may have felt by his behavior. But Carlisle was just as lost as she had been afterwards. She wanted to run crying into the open arms of yesterday, but some part of her wanted to savor her own guilt for as long as possible. Some part of her wanted to stay away from _him _as long as possible...but she did not know why.

"That's not how _he_ feels," Edward revealed darkly, "and that's clearly not how _you_ feel either."

This boy was exceptional at making her feel wretched.

"Did _he_ send you out here?" she demanded, some part of her secretly hoping he had.

Edward's reply was quite clear before he spoke. His eyes were browned by intensity as he answered her question in a voice of calm contrast to her own shrill stutter.

"He wants to make sure you're safe."

Her stomach fluttered.

Edward's jaw twitched.

"I'm doing just what he told me to do," she defended with mocking pride, rising to her feet and taking a deep, daring breath. "I'm abandoning my fears."

Edward stood up beside her.

"Esme, you know that's not..." His voice drifted away as he was preoccupied by her thoughts.

In a sudden and unwelcome vision, she imagined Carlisle back at the house, worrying for _her_ well-being. She imagined how the sounds of her escape would have taunted his ears, and how he would have jumped to run after her himself, only to remember that his footsteps behind her would have made her run away faster.

Carlisle had sent Edward after her because Carlisle was too afraid to send _himself_.

It had been the same heartbreaking strategy he'd allowed in Charles' death.

At this realization, Esme's knees faltered and she slowly stumbled back into the ground. Edward caught her elbow before she could fall and she clutched his hand, grateful for his caring touch.

"I don't want this..." she moaned childishly, curling up on the grass.

"Neither do I," Edward boldly affirmed. "Neither does he."

She held his hand tighter and shook her head. "How can things go back to the way they once were? Do you think it's even possible?"

"Of course it is."

Her eyes were drawn up to his stunning face, his even more stunning sureness.

"Oh, Edward... I feel like something is _missing_," she whispered, confounded. "What am I missing?"

"You need time to forgive yourself, Esme," Edward enlightened. "You were too preoccupied with _my_ problems, with Carlisle's problems. Devote time to healing your _own_ heart."

The words were so very much like something she imagined Carlisle would have said.

"Did_ he _tell you to say that?"

Edward flinched at the bite to her tone, but his voice was soft and calm when he replied.

"No."

Her eyes pierced his.

"But he will wait for you," he said with conviction, coming to kneel before her so they were eye to eye.

"Why does he keep asking me to speak?" she whimpered weakly into her hands. "Can't he see that I'm not ready?"

Edward bit his lip in a very uncharacteristic gesture of uncertainty.

"Do you want to know the truth?"

Her breath promptly stopped as her eyes widened their permission.

Edward sighed in what seemed to be relief and sadness combined. "He just wants to hear your voice."

"I want to hear _his_," she admitted solemnly. "But I'm not ready..." Her eyes stared deeply into Edward's, seeking his understanding. "Will you tell him I'm not ready?"

Edward smiled sadly and nodded. "If that is what you wish, Esme."

She breathed in relief as Edward's fingers roamed over her hand for a few moments, chasing the tremors away.

"Will you come back inside now?"

Her heart gave a small jolt at the suggestion of returning to the house, but it was not an entirely unpleasant sensation. With some surprise, she realized she _wanted _to go back. No matter how disappointed or angry or confused she was with him, the thought of Carlisle having to be alone made her ill.

So she agreed with a nod and let Edward help her to her feet.

He escorted her back to the house, across the shadowy lawn and onto the porch where he paused to hold the door open for her.

Carlisle was there on the other side.

He'd looked out of place, as if he'd just been coming into the room right when she had decided to enter...as if he'd happened upon her by sheer accident. He had the air of one intruding on something he was not meant to see.

She hadn't seen him for days.

His hair was tousled in rough waves of palest gold, as if the restless hands of a child had been tugging at the blond locks for hours. His eyes were dark and apologetic, glistening within deep-set shadows. He stood still and strong, but his body was wrought tense, as if invisible hands were thrashing at him from all sides, beating him, choking him...

One of his hands was nervously gnawing at the fabric of his trousers on his left hip.

He was the image of agony. A disastrously beautiful mess.

After hesitating in the doorway, Esme finally found the courage to step into the foyer, her feet tingling as they fought the urge to run away from where he stood.

As she stepped closer, he seemed even more uncomfortable with the lessening proximity. His hand rose suddenly as she approached, and she watched as he discreetly tucked the chained cross back under his collar where it would be safe from view.

Her eyes held his in a regretful challenge as she passed him on her way to the staircase. But there, on the very first step as she clutched his gaze, his scent sweetened for a brief instant, awakening many familiar but long-neglected desires inside of her.

No words were exchanged between them.

But as Edward took her hand and led her slowly up the stairs, Esme thought of a thousand things she should have said to Carlisle.

She thought of turning to him, opening her eyes wide for him to see the colors, and asking him if they looked like the sunset now.

She thought of pulling his hand away from his hip, holding it up to her heart, and telling him he was the only one who could wake it.

She thought – very, very briefly – of flinging her arms around his sunken shoulders and purging his lips of their shameful confessions, with the fire of her desperate kiss.

But the only thought she acted upon was to glance back down at him when she reached the top of the stairs.

He was staring right back at her.

Edward guided her around the corner, through the shadows, and into her room.

He whispered before he closed the door. "We're here for you, Esme."

And she felt safer than she had in a very long time.

* * *

_**A/N: **__In case you missed the note at the top, "Chapter 15: The Apology," in __**Behind Stained Glass **__shows how Edward and Carlisle make amends after their confrontation in the last chapter. _


	36. Underneath Weeping Willows

**Chapter 36:**

**Underneath Weeping Willows**

* * *

One long week passed where Esme lamented the loss of the nameless child whose life was exhausted at her expense. Finally, perhaps a little selfishly, she took the time to mourn for it properly. She tucked herself away in her room with the curtains closed, and relived the memories of its siren-like scent, the terror in its glossy blue gaze as she attacked without precedent.

The thought made her mad, knowing that this child had belonged to a woman – a mother – that it was not _hers _to take. This sort of loss, as Esme had proved once herself, could result in suicide. In death. She could have been responsible for two deaths, both mother and child. This thought haunted Esme with every passing moment.

Edward's return had made Esme realize just how briefly he had been gone, and what it would have been like if he had never returned. That was the very curse she had put upon the mother whose child she had killed.

Esme mourned the loss of her _own _child, a loss she would never be able to rectify as an immortal woman with a sterile womb. She realized now that she had truly never deserved such a sweet, dependent infant. She had single-handedly slaughtered all innocence. Her son would have never survived with a mother like her.

And even as Esme knew in the depths of her heart that she was only relishing in her own self-pity, she could not help but believe that some part of her was made to be forever sadistic.

Her heart began to doubt that her gaze would ever blossom from cardinal to canary.

Edward found her during the times when her self-berating grew dangerous. He sat with her and explained to her that she must put her mistakes behind her, that she was and forever would be appreciated regardless of those mistakes. Somehow with each passing day, as the days grew steadily brighter, she had begun to believe his words.

"I must apologize again for everything I put you through, Esme," he said to her on a quiet, sunny morning when Carlisle was away. His face was strewn with apology, and somehow strained as if he were hiding something from her, still. "I know what you are going through, and trust me when I say, I _understand_ your agony."

Esme had never heard Edward struggle with articulating his words before, and it was disconcerting.

"It's all right," she whispered, touching his shoulder.

"No, I... I want to also apologize for doubting your feelings for Carlisle," he said with a hesitant wince. Her attention piqued, she met his eyes for an instant before he looked down in shame. "I know I hurt you by suggesting you were only infatuated, but I can see now that... it is possible I was wrong."

A searing light filled her blackened heart at his words, and she felt like she was breathing clear air for the first time in weeks. This was a dangerous suggestion – a dangerous hope.

She shook her head softly. "Edward, you cannot tell me things like that."

Hastily, he took her hand, still not brave enough to meet her eyes. "I _want _you to have hope, Esme," he insisted in a husky voice. "I feel like I'm keeping you from being closer to him... I was selfish, but I wanted to distance you both. As long as he and I were distanced, I wanted him to be the same way with you."

Her thoughts were silent as Edward spoke, and she drank in his confessions with a merciful heart, not wanting to interrupt one breath from the boy. It was so remarkable that he was saying these things.

_Why would you do that? _she asked him, her mind-voice excruciatingly gentle.

Edward's eyes averted slowly in shame. "Because sometimes I feel like I'm losing him..."

_Carlisle loves you. He will love you no matter what, Edward. _

"I know that," he whispered. "That's why I feel so guilty."

She sighed. _We have to work to fix this. All of us._

Edward looked as though he were struggling to nod, but wouldn't allow himself to do it. He stared at her pointedly for a moment then sighed. "First, I need your forgiveness."

Why did everyone seem to be asking for forgiveness lately?

He must have heard her hesitation, because he smiled a little sadly and averted his eyes. "Just say it, Esme... Just let me hear it so I can put this all behind me."

Carefully, she pressed her hand onto his. "Yes, Edward. I forgive you."

His brow rested in relief. "Thank you."

She closed her eyes and nodded, turning her face back to the subtle heat from the sunlit window. The warmth felt so fine upon her cheek.

"You shouldn't avoid Carlisle anymore," Edward interjected the soft heat with a softer cold. "He wants to make amends, but he's afraid that you won't give him the chance."

The sun sparkling on Esme's hands seemed to simper up at her – a fabricated brightness, a false smile.

"I don't know what to say to him," she admitted idly.

"He will hear anything, Esme. Anything you have to say."

She pursed her lips doubtfully and looked away.

"You don't know Carlisle the way I do," Edward explained with a huff of exasperation. "He _wallows _in guilt, Esme. Over every little thing. He's ridiculous."

She almost wanted to laugh, but her heart admonished her promptly at the thought.

"_Because of you,"_ her heart reminded, _"He's hurting because of you."_

To some extent, Edward could read Esme's heart as well. Forgiveness wore well in his eyes. "Trust me... He just wants you back."

Whether or not she would have allowed it, her heart was startled by Edward's sincerity.

It was now only with Carlisle where Esme felt her misgivings were still unresolved.

He had long since given up on trying to warm her back to life since their strange confrontation. She had not realized then, how addicting the doctor's insistent pleading for her to see the light had been. She longed to have that again – his constant attention, his overwhelming concern, his constant pacing by her bedroom door night after night. But she had pushed him past the limit, abused her situation until it was exhausted. Just as he had pushed _her _past her limit, showing her a side to him that made her want to retreat from the despicable mix of awe and fear she felt in seeing it. He was now silent as a statue, never bothering to speak to her because he was so certain she would turn his caring gaze away.

She missed the man she knew before it all. She missed the angelic, gentle, innocent Doctor Cullen.

But that was not _Carlisle. _

Carlisle, beneath that image of unattainable goodness, was purely _man. _He shared, with the rest of his sinful generation, every weakness and misgiving and thought inspired by evil. And for as much as he was capable of saving her, he was also capable of _hurting _her. He was in no way perfect.

It left Esme shaken to think that, until now, all she had seen of him had just been the surface covering a deep, dark, tormented ocean of tender fury and blazing blue passion.

Something in her wanted to drown in this ocean, and see what treasures he kept buried in the sands. She thought the pressure might prove too great if she were to take the dive, but she also believed it would be worth suffocating to discover.

Carlisle needed someone willing to drown in his ocean. Almost three centuries worth of water and waves were waiting to pull _someone _under. Though he did so little in the way of crying for help, he was drowning alone, and she could not bear to watch him drown for much longer.

Esme finally reached a point where she would have gladly disrobed herself of her pride and fell on her knees before this strange new Carlisle, begging him for the slightest attention she so greedily craved. But she had not needed to genuflect at his feet.

He had come to her.

It had been one of the rare moments when Edward was not at her side. She found herself in the lofty heights of a sparsely dressed tree behind the house, wishing its few remaining leaves would hide her from the rest of the world. Instead, they wilted off their branches one by one, like lovers parting with a final farewell, dying a death of contentment that she could not bear to understand.

People always said winter was the season of death, but Esme always thought the autumn was worse. It was that suspending thread, that hanging moment in time between the bittersweet warm wonders of summer and the harsh chill of winter, teetering on the edge of the cold misery to come. It was the tragic and taunting calm before the storm.

A strange heat wave had descended over their region, quite rare for the end of autumn. The present evening was an oddly lovely mutation of the three seasons. The coolness of a deep blue dusk permeated by a thick, almost tropical breeze. Chilly, yet humid, like a confusing fever.

It was that precise evening when Carlisle found her, lamenting everything that had been worth lamenting in her life.

His scent was like a needle in the crisp night air, a sweet vaccination, a hot spark to staple her dead heart in place.

Then she heard his voice.

In a brisk, bewitching British breath, he had sighed her name from just a few meters below.

With unbridled curiosity, Esme peeked over the branch to the ground beneath her and looked down at the doctor where he stood, one foot pressed proudly upon a raised root of the tree, claiming his stance with an unassuming flair.

"I recall once agreeing that you would never climb another tree again." His accent was free-flowing that night, a lilting chime that seemed to fluster even the innocent crickets in the tree around her.

A bittersweet pang hit her heart at the distant memory, though she pretended to be unaffected by it.

"Forgive me, Doctor. I don't recall such an agreement," she mumbled, cold and coy, averting her eyes from his handsome face.

"Will you please call me by my name?" he practically begged.

She exhaled in defeat.

"I'm sorry – Doctor_ Cullen_."

The sweetness of his bothered sigh wafted up to her from where he stood by the base of the tree.

"Would you mind coming down from there for a moment?" he asked, polite and tentative.

"Must I? I rather prefer this height to the ground," she taunted in defense, both irritated and wonderfully inspired by his timid persistence.

"Shall I come to you, then?"

Her body tensed delightfully.

He wouldn't.

But the simmering magnetism that drew her to his body suddenly strengthened, and the taunting ambrosia of his scent swirled around her, more palpable than before. The cashmere caress of his sweater vest, and the buttery brush of his leather boots against the rough bark of the tree echoed from somewhere very near below her, and the unmistakable proximity of the sounds made her numb. She could only assume that he had scaled the tree in one swift ascension, as his presence now felt painfully close to her, but she could not see him.

She looked about uneasily for the unmistakable shock of blond, but could find it nowhere, even in the barren state of the old tree.

Acting foolishly in her mild panic, Esme freely jumped from her branch and dashed toward the safer, more obstructive trees near the lake, her every footfall upon the grass like a substitute heartbeat.

Breathing cautiously, she swept apart the feathery curtain of a weeping willow and took refuge in its shade from the intrusive twilight, hoping her new hiding spot would suffice.

She allowed the soothing trickle of the nearby waters to calm her nerves for a few minutes, taking deep healing breaths of nature's clean, untainted air.

Her eyes flashed open when the earthy perfume around her became infused with a scent far too intoxicating to be natural.

"Why do you run away from me?" The sudden softness of his familiar voice made her stomach flutter in alarm. His tone was positively heartbreaking, more appropriate if he had been begging for mercy from someone who held a sword to his throat.

She could just barely make out his figure, mostly concealed behind the lacy sheets of somber foliage that hung between them. She self-consciously backed away until she bumped against the bark of the tree, her nerves positively pulsing with a betraying excitement and a bout of delicious déjà vu.

"I...I wasn't running away...from you_._" She had to lie.

Carlisle sighed. "May I please speak with you for a while? I feel that we've been far too distant these days."

Oh, didn't he understand that it was better that way? Easier that way? _Safer_ that way?

His arm lifted hesitantly with the threat to draw back the leaves, and she stiffened in defense.

"Please?" He made the word sound so delicate, so careful...almost affectionate.

Esme fidgeted with uncertainty, unable to find any way out of the trap she had created for herself. Then, he said something unexpected.

"I've been missing that mocking smile of yours."

Her eyes widened in surprise, and a trickling heat spread down her neck. Something in his words, in the teasingly melancholy but not-quite-flirtatious candor of his voice as he uttered the confession was, almost blatantly, _romantic_.

Whatever was he referring to?

She wasn't aware that she _had_ a mocking smile...

"Oh..." All she could do was breathe the word, a frail wisp of air that hurt deeply when it pushed past her tremulous lips.

She could do nothing to stop his arm as it rose above his head, could do nothing to discourage his graceful fingers as they lightly grasped the thin green fringe and parted her protective curtain.

His head tilted to one side in modest consideration as he unveiled her hiding place. The jewels of his eyes fell upon her unthreateningly where she stood with her hands twisting awkwardly behind her back.

"Hello." His tone was light, amused.

"Hello," she returned shyly.

She could feel the stiff bloom of her own eyes dilating as Carlisle's fingers released the delicate vines, cloaking them both beneath the silent shade of the tree. The golden color of his hair was made a brilliant jade in the deep teal shadows, and his eyes gleamed like peridots, rivaling the glow from the fireflies that floated soundlessly around him. The warm wind that waved through the leaves mingled with the reflections dancing off of the nearby lake, giving them the impression that they were underwater. An ethereal shimmer of dull light danced over their faces as they stared at each other, too long to be entirely comfortable.

Carlisle spoke first. "I'm sorry if I startled you before."

Every breath he took and every blink of his eyes was startling to her. He could not apologize for breathing and blinking.

"Of course not," Esme lied softly.

His tender, Christmassy sort of scent made her extravagantly lightheaded, especially while confined within the canopy of limp leaves that surrounded them. Trapped them. Alone, together.

"I'm sorry for...many things, Esme," he continued, his voice low and regretful.

She sighed. "I've told you already. I've put it behind me." She sharpened her stare and tried to ignore the reminiscent churning in her stomach.

His responsive gaze was dark, purely saddened, and flush with disbelief.

"Have you truly forgiven me?"

Esme was mildly baffled. How many times must she offer _her _forgiveness? Couldn't he see that she was the one who needed to be forgiven for causing this entire mess in the first place?

"Why do you keep asking me to forgive you?" she asked him, struggling to keep her voice from flaking. "What do you _need _to be forgiven for, Carlisle? Your thoughts? That's absurd. I couldn't fault you for something like that. Something so...personal."

He bit his lip, and the gesture itself seemed so painful she almost winced.

"Nevertheless...I'm ashamed you had to bear witness to my behavior that night," he bowed his head slightly, his eyes soaked with unshed self-loathing. Suddenly his voice became rushed, "And...Dear God, Esme, I nearly ruined you by letting you believe you were the reason Edward fled. Please, at least forgive me for that."

She nodded with a mute whisper. "You're forgiven, Carlisle."

A lengthy pause followed where it seemed they were both holding their breath.

"Are you still upset with me?"

_He was impossible._

"I never _was _upset with you," she began a little vehemently, then carefully softened her voice for his benefit. "Well, I was in the beginning. But now I'm just...confused."

He spoke roughly after a pause, "I wish I could take it all back, Esme."

"We cannot change what has been done," she reminded stiffly.

There was a sweet sort of humidity to the air, a warm drowsy haze that enhanced her dizziness as he stood across from her, staring at her as if she were a puzzle he was trying to decipher with great difficulty.

"Then why do you continue to torture yourself?" he asked.

For a moment she was confused. Carlisle folded his hands in front of him, and the faint clink of his knuckles against the metal fasten of his belt gave her the sudden urge to swallow audibly.

Then he elaborated.

"Esme, you should know that I was never one to dwell on mistakes made in the past."

So he did want to talk about her...accident. Well, it was easy enough for _him_ to say that he was not bothered by it. He was a clean slate in the world of control, and would be forever.

She looked down in shame, mildly mortified that they were discussing this so openly.

"While you may think that _you_ do not deserve forgiveness, I can only insist that this is untrue," Carlisle said. "Edward and I understand the pain you have gone through because of it. However, we also believe you have spent far too long grieving the matter."

He had included Edward's sentiments, perhaps as justification, but Esme had the faint suspicion it was really Carlisle's sole opinion being voiced, and it in fact had very little to do with what Edward felt regarding the matter.

She blinked, struggling to hold his gaze as his eyes furrowed in concern, and he stepped slightly closer.

"You were so quick to forgive us for everything _we _put you through," he reminded her in a gently passionate voice. "We only want you to be happy again."

Her eyes were locked to the taunting pillow of his bottom lip as he spoke, noting the slightly deeper color it had become after all the times he had bitten it.

"So, please. You must forgive _yourself_."

Still slightly too proud to show how touched she was by the care in his words, Esme looked to her feet and stiffly, but insincerely, nodded her head. She heard the gentle rhythm of his breath even out, and took it as a sign of relief.

It was completely accidental that her hand rose up to stroke the scars of her neck, fingers moving discreetly beneath the curtain of her hair. It was quite clear what she had been doing, and Carlisle caught her uncomfortably, his jaw tightening as though the methodical action tempted him to bite her again.

Her hands immediately dropped to her sides and clenched into fists, pressed back against the tree in defense.

There was a blistering silence that dragged on for a few moments before Carlisle spoke again, and his voice was noticeably quieter this time.

"I do not want you to think that I regret what I have done by changing you, Esme." He spoke candidly, but avoided underlining the words. There was no need to; they both understood what was being discussed quite clearly.

He placed one hand flat against the bark of the tree and continued in an almost frightened whisper, "However, I understand if you now..._resent_ me for what I have made you..."

Her gaze flickered to his immediately, discovering that he was awfully close to her. His eyes were sad, and she had the sudden need to reassure him that her _resentment_ could have never been possible.

"Carlisle...I could never..." She shook her head in vague disbelief, trying to find the right words while he stared at her in somber-eyed guilt.

He swiftly interrupted her before she could speak again, his voice faintly tormented, "_Truthfully,_ Esme. Do you _truthfully _remain content with this lifestyle?"

"Yes." She had not needed to think before answering. No matter what his lifestyle, she would adapt to it and remain devoted to it as long as he wished her to. It was simply her fate to follow him in everything that he did. "I do."

The two tiny words hung between them. Though there was no echo in the thick, humid air, the words echoed clear as crystal in their minds.

His lower lip fell faintly as he stared down at her, as though in some kind of daze.

She realized immediately that she had to keep speaking, if only to relieve the weight of those two words that held so much more implication than she had intended.

"I'm...grateful," she stuttered anxiously, wondering why words always worked against her. "After all that's happened, I suppose I've come to accept the fact that I can never be human again." She tried too hard to sound nonchalant, and the tone of her voice came off sounding painfully artificial.

Carlisle exhaled uncomfortably. "Really? You miss _nothing_ about your humanity?" He seemed more intrigued than concerned.

"As far as I can remember there was nothing worth missing..." she trailed, debating whether she should admit to the exception. "...Just one thing."

It took no time for him to respond with startling immediacy.

"Your son."

She turned away out of habit to hide nonexistent tears. "I could not have had him anyway."

Carlisle was silent, and rightly so. She had left him with no remotely appropriate responses.

"I suppose I was never meant to be a mother," she mourned.

"You know that isn't true, Esme," he assured in a warm, low voice. If sincerity were a knife, he would have stabbed her with it. After sharpening the blade.

Something inside of her prickled with hope, and she turned her face just a tad, still unprepared for the directness of his gaze.

"But it is. I can never have another child now," she murmured, dolefully challenging him to ease the sting of such a disability.

"We have Edward," he reminded her, the words melting on his tongue.

She nearly gasped.

"_You _have…Edward…" he amended awkwardly, a strange strain in his usually confident voice.

If she had Edward, that meant Edward was _like_ her son. If Edward was _like_ her son, then she was _like_ his mother. And if Carlisle was _like _Edward's father, then...

"Do you consider me a mother figure to Edward?" she asked in a curious whisper, turning to face Carlisle with dimly flashing eyes.

"I… I know that _he_ considers you a mother figure, yes," he said cryptically, carefully skirting the path he knew she intended him to take.

The stifling pressure of their proximity was suddenly unbearable, the tartness of venom slick beneath her tongue. It was all too ridiculous, but in her mind she had the most passionate drive to kiss him with abandon. To tackle him to the ground, land in the soft bed of clover, and never depart the safe canopy of this weeping willow. In this dream, she could have him all for herself...

"That does not answer my question, Doctor," she murmured, diving head-first into the glowing sea of his gaze.

The thrilling aroma of sexual tension sweetened every one of Esme's senses, her brief fantasy threatening to overrun her better judgment.

"Carlisle," he corrected, so softly that she could barely hear him. His velvety voice bore the blessing of his given accent, rolling the letters ever so slightly.

It was unlawfully lovely, the way he said his own name.

Esme blinked once in chagrin, but did not dare repeat his name. Instead, she turned away from the heat of his eyes, scraping little lines into the tree bark with her fingernails. "This isn't working."

She didn't know where the words had come from, or even exactly what they meant, but he had answered her as if they held all the significance they were both too afraid to realize.

"You aren't _letting _it work, Esme." His voice was so soft when she wished it would be stern.

The silvery glow of the moonlight was suddenly shaded by clouds, and the shadows dropped all around her, bringing a deeper chill to the thick night air.

Her lungs tightened uncomfortably, trying to contain the urge to sob. A tiny beetle crossed warily over her fingernail where she still touched the tree, and she looked upon it with empathy, all at once appreciating too deeply how someone so small and helpless felt. Her voice came out weak and flinty, "Can you blame me for feeling inferior to you, Carlisle?"

There. She said it. Quick and painless.

His eyes were drained of all their light in the shadows, and he turned his head down sadly.

"Please don't say things like that, Esme. It breaks my heart." His voice was so soft a dove could outcry him. "You've _seen_ me; you've heard me say things I'm not proud of...despicable things. You are hardly the inferior here, Esme."

Her voice was faint as she turned her eyes away, "But your control will always conquer mine."

All at once, Carlisle burst in gentle vehemence. "Oh, Esme... The difference in our control is unmentionable at this moment! I have had centuries to overcome it. You have only just begun."

She could say nothing to this. Knowing it was true that her journey had just begun somehow stole her hope instead of restoring it. Her throat was like a vacuum, and no words would have been adequate to form a response.

"I know that you are still finding many things hard to accept..." Carlisle forced the words out, fluid and frustrated and still too gentle. "But you need to _try._"

She felt him come closer behind her, afraid that he would force her to meet his gaze. She would not let him.

"I already tried," she whimpered, hiding her face. "Oh, I'm so tired of trying."

Her hands felt clammy where they clung to the tree, and her eyes were weary. She could feel him so close that his breath was caressing the back of her neck, and when did it get this dark outside...?

"Don't ever talk like that," he said, and she was relieved to hear that the steadiness had crept back into his voice. "You have such promise, Esme. Such promise..."

The trifle tickling of his fingers as they caressed her hair caused her heart to quiver. They tucked several silky tresses behind her ear, and the tenderness in that slightest of touches was enough to make her body ache all over.

"I thought it was going to be so easy..." She shook her head in dismay, disappointed that the motion had frightened his fingers away. "I was just beginning to think that, maybe, I could have perfect control..."

His swift but cautious intake of breath told her everything before he said it. "There is no such thing as perfect control."

She wanted to believe him, but as long as he stood there, he would always be the living contradiction to his own prophecy.

Her eyes were heady with bitter adoration as she turned around to face him. "But there is, Carlisle," she countered numbly, with a wan half-smile. "There must be, because you have achieved it."

His gaze grew defensive. "There is no way to know if I will remain this way forever."

She barely let him finish his sentence. "You would never hurt anybody," she insisted idly. "You are too pure in heart."

His eyes sparked with inspiration, warmth, and something like vehement disagreement.

"So are you, Esme."

There was the faintest edge of a smile on his lips as he reminded her of this, and however greatly she might have wanted to argue its validity, she could not believe otherwise when he was looking at her with such draining compassion.

"How can you know this?" she asked quietly.

"I see it," his confession was delectably thick in his throat. "Every day, I see it. You've made it so plain... Can you not see it in yourself?"

She could not respond, but it was all right. He wasn't expecting a response. He was content just to stare and smile softly at her. He could have done it all night, it seemed.

Those mysterious forces of twining encouragement fought behind her again – a hundred tiny hands issuing nudge after loving nudge against her back, pushing her toward him…

It was like they knew just how _desperately _she wanted to kiss him.

She stared up at him, so very aware of the pulsing humidity between them, so aware that there was something racing behind his gaze that made her body flush with false hope. Their scents were swimming, and the sky was darkening by the second, and her venom was tart on the tip of her tongue. His lips were open just the tiniest bit, perhaps in awe, perhaps with the clinging will to say something to her…

But the first wretched wet raindrop that landed on her shoulder put an abrupt end to the magic. It tried to warn her before the rest came careening down from the darkened sky, but she had been too paralyzed to move a muscle.

The willow's flimsy branches did little to protect them from the monsoon that had come to drench their moment of climactic tension. They stood still, staring at each other as it rained down on them, almost grudgingly.

They could have ignored that rain if they wanted to. They could have closed that blockade of empty air between them and met one another, body to body, arms winding around each other in a beautiful, slippery embrace.

But it did not happen.

One blink of her eyes threw a match to their delicate pressure.

But somehow, it did not feel like such a tragic loss.

Carlisle smiled strangely as the rain shattered over them, and Esme could not help but smile back. It was so amazing, the way the frustration seemed to wash away with the rain. Was it really a cleansing shower from heaven that helped them to move on?

He did not take her lips, but he did take her hand. And through the pulse of the storm overhead, she heard his tender voice, drowning out everything else in the night.

"Come home with me."

* * *

_**A/N**__: So now things are finally starting to look brighter... What did you think about how they made up? I've always found weeping willows to be very romantic, hence the setting. ;)_

_Thanks for reading! _


	37. Kissing Cotton

**Chapter 37:**

**Kissing Cotton **

* * *

Esme's mind was on fire for a good week after her peculiar encounter with the doctor beneath the willow tree. It was somewhat upsetting when she thought back to how excruciatingly close she could possibly have come to kissing him right then and there. No one would have ever seen them. It could have been their only secret...

He had taken her hand as the rain poured down, and without a word he pulled her out from under their protective willow and into the storm. Though the force of the rain had been hard and unforgiving, it felt almost sleek and gentle while she was running by Carlisle's side.

The way they ran together, hand in hand, was intoxicating. It was as if the speed and force and swiftness of their run was circulating between them both, a breathtaking synergy that sparked them into perfectly fluid motion. They possessed an undeniable power when they were linked this way, but that power could never be acknowledged.

Together they ran as fast as they could through the storm, all but hovering over the thick grass, clutching the other's hand like it was their destiny to do so.

By the time they had reached the back porch of the mansion, their clothes were soaked, their hair dripping with rain, both breathing hard. It wasn't particularly embarrassing, precisely because the awkward situation was shared, but Esme felt a soft burning in her chest as Carlisle's eyes quickly took in the sopping length of her body. She looked away as his gaze passed over her, pretending to have been blind to it. His hand was still locked around hers, and it had taken only that aversion of eyes for him to gently let go. She felt a tiny prickle of shame, but the sound of his heartfelt chuckling had instantly soothed her unease.

The mutual relief at being under the same roof again was palpable. As they retreated to separate rooms to dry off properly, even Edward's parental disapproval of their behavior sounded reassuring. It was nice to feel that things were mostly back to normal, skeptical as Esme might have been that it could happen in just one night.

It was all because Carlisle had taken her hand.

He had taken her hand so many times by now, yet every time he did it, it marked a new beginning. His warmth always stunned her, and his care always rescued her heart.

No matter how many flaws he let slip past his exterior, it would never change the fact that he was so frustratingly _good_.

The thought made her smile sadly as she tied the sash of her robe and pulled her drenched hair back over her shoulders, watching the rest of the storm through her window. At this moment in time Esme was never more relieved to ridicule her foolish infatuation. A romantic relationship with Carlisle sounded suddenly twice as preposterous. Everything that had happened between them so far seemed to softly discourage that dream. Unless he would have preferred taking a wife who had endured an abusive marriage, failed in suicide, murdered an innocent child, and all but lost her faith in God…

A month ago, Esme would have believed Carlisle did not deserve such a wife.

He would deserve someone who was loyal and loving, caring and compassionate, spiritual and sweet. Someone who had never spilled a human's blood. Someone who was not a sinner.

But now that she had seen the reality of the man who lay beneath the face of an angel, Esme was struck with a different kind of hope.

Each of them was as much a sinner as the other. Each of them had fallen as many times as the other. Each of them deserved more than they believed they deserved.

Upon realizing this, Esme felt something deep inside that posed a threat to her self-torture. It was almost like something was telling her that if she dared to hope enough, wish enough, and possibly pray enough, she _would _earn Carlisle's love.

What if it were possible…?

A mind like hers was made to wonder, despite how ridiculous and foolish it may have seemed. People dreamed, and their dreams were made into reality every day. Esme had always been the last person to hope for such a blessing, but impossibility was just a word in this world. There was still the smidgen of a chance, the crackle of a light beneath the door frame that Carlisle could be her romantic rescuer. It would have given her something for which she could be beyond thankful in this life.

It was with these sentiments that Esme dawdled into the month of November with a kind of muted hope. She had never truly wiped away every last drop of shame from her mistakes, and the changing of seasons only hosted a pitiful reunion of guilt and conscience.

There was never a moment to be fully unaffected by_ the child's _face. In her mind, it had become such a strongly recurring image, she'd been tempted to name it, but the thought made her cry. If she'd still had the ability to have nightmares, it would have appeared every night – the songbird clarity of its tiny lips, plump red cheeks, ginger freckles, sickeningly blue eyes. Esme did not know if it had been the face of a boy or girl beneath the small gray hood, and it didn't matter. It had been _life. _She had destroyed _life. _

Then there were those few sparing angels who _saved _lives_. _Carlisle, most specifically, lingered on the far end of that spectrum, and while he wished lesser life upon those who wronged others, it was an appeal to his character. He could not be blamed when he was so devoted to justice for the rest of them.

Esme could be thankful for this compassionate conqueror she had found in Carlisle Cullen. She could admire his beautiful _will_ to be decent, his dreams to walk in the footsteps of Christ, and his vicious altruism that obliviously made the world a better place.

She could be thankful for _him_.

Esme was newly enlightened. Finally crawling out of the deep dark hole of her depression, she realized that she _could _be closer to Carlisle. Romance, no matter how wonderful she dreamed it could be, was not the only power that could bind two people together.

They could be dearest friends, and it could be wonderful. She could be satisfied with this if she only gave it a chance. Perhaps to deny herself this kind of closeness out of fear was the wrong way of doing things. Perhaps a change in her mindset was needed. Perhaps this would lead them, readily and patiently on the proper path, hand in hand with destiny.

Carlisle seemed to want the same. He was encouraging closeness, in his subtle, gentle sort of way. He was showing her, by every little motion and every little glance that he _appreciated_ her. For once, Esme felt a power over _his_ needs, and not the other way around. For once, he looked at her and she was not reminded of a chasm between them. She was only reminded of a mutual, equal distance between a man and a woman which begged to be filled.

And he shared this hope.

It came to be one quiet morning, where she had been curled up on the armchair in the sitting room, with her ankles in her hands and her head at rest on her shoulder.

The clock chimed five times to mark the end of Carlisle's night shift. The birds were starting to sing, their song weakened by the frost. She knew he would be home any minute, but waiting for Carlisle always took longer than she wished it would.

Her eyes opened when she heard him come inside the house, the tightness in her chest knitting soft little circles as she listened to his footsteps cross the hall.

She knew he had been watching her from the door. She heard the soft shedding sounds as he removed his coat, the pad of his shoes on the carpet as he walked around her chair to block the dim blue light from the window.

Her eyes went up to him immediately, needing to see his face. He wore his doctor's coat, all white and clean and pure. His face was just the same, even cast in shadow.

"Edward said you haven't felt like talking."

She shrugged. "I'm...all right."

"Why don't you come outside for a while?"

"It's too cold, don't you think?"

"I mean come out of this room," he whispered with a small smile.

"Oh," she sighed, rising from her comfortable little space on the armchair to follow him. "Okay."

For once she did not try resisting that small sparkle of light when he offered it.

She was so glad that she chose not to resist him this time.

Carlisle's unfailing patience was Esme's saving grace. Every day he forced her closer to accepting herself in spite of her imperfections, and suddenly, with this strange new will to open herself to the man he truly was, she ceased fire upon his good intentions. He had shown her that imperfections could mar even the holiest of men. Even those who tried the hardest, even those who _appeared _the purest were often just as lost as those whose failures were heard round the world.

He was so wonderful when he was like this, utterly glowing with mercy and compassion and sensitivity, no longer ashamed that she had seen his subjection to sin. Esme showed Carlisle every day that she accepted him all too gladly in spite of his failures. He never left her side.

Slowly, he encouraged her to speak out about her fears and worries. In time, she'd confessed to him her lingering pain regarding the accident, and since then he had done everything in his power to help her cope, subsequently revealing much more about his own past to her attentive ears.

"There is no escaping it – the life of a vampire will always be profuse with death," he told her as they watched the sun rise from the windows of his study. "While it may sound discouraging, nothing less should be expected when we speak of eternity."

"I understand," she sighed. "It's only that... I've never dealt very well with death. I'd hardly even taken the time to think about the consequences of my own death."

She could feel his eyes burning through the filmy layers of her subconscious, and with a slight tip of her chin in the opposite direction, she politely discouraged the invasion.

The weight of Carlisle's stare was something she feared she would never grow accustomed to. No matter how much time she spent becoming familiar with every nuance in his gaze, his eyes made her feel so readable, so…exposed. And while this feeling had become strangely appealing over time, she found that she still had to duck her head to avoid it.

"I've never dealt well with death either," Carlisle admitted in a low voice, his eyes managing to look dark even in the soft light of a dying candle that splashed over his face.

Esme raised one eyebrow and tilted her head back to appraise him critically. "And yet, you are a doctor," she pointed out, creating a rather twisted shadow-smile in her effort to mask her tentative amusement.

"Which is why I find it continuously challenging to accept death as a natural end to human life." He took a deep breath and faced the window distantly, his eyes like amber mirrors reflecting the young sun. "I _still _find myself _wishing _I could save them all..." He shook his head idly. "But I know it would be terribly reckless and unwise."

He turned his head and looked at her with a wry smile. "Venom is a dark gift never to be used liberally." He reached up with one hand to absently smooth the wrinkles from the curtain. "I often forget it is not some prescription drug I can dole out to whomever I please."

She bit her lip in uncertainty, wondering privately what had inspired him to resort to his venom in order to save _her_. The little voice in her head pleaded with her to ask him, but she ignored it vehemently, not wanting to sound presumptuous in any way.

"What inspired you to become a doctor?" she asked instead, to sate her curiosity.

His immediate smile made the tiny space between her heart and stomach soar almost painfully. "Nothing ever made me happier than the thought of making an irony out of my given situation. If, as a vampire, I was meant to take the lives of humans, then I would do just the opposite. I would rebel against my instincts and _save _them instead."

Esme was aware then of how embarrassingly starry-eyed she must have looked as he said this, but she could find not one ounce of effort to censor the unflattering gawk and gape of her expression.

"You were the first to do this?" she supposed, fairly certain now that no other of their kind would care enough to spare the lives of humans, especially after having tasted the temptation herself.

"As far as I know," he admitted with a light shrug of one shoulder. "I was always something of a peculiarity among other vampires, as you well know." His smile quirked awkwardly at his own word choice.

"With the Volturi..." She remembered Edward's stories.

Carlisle nodded, his expression somewhat grave. "They never understood why I was so disturbed by the way they killed without qualm." He was quiet for a long moment as the memories flashed behind his eyes. "I had seen so many useless deaths while in Volterra. Not only their blood victims, but other vampires as well. Whether they had come, begging for their end, or they were simply too naïve in the ways of our world to understand their mistakes, it hurt me deeply to have to watch them die."

His head bowed slightly, seeking closeness with the light.

"Why did you?" she whispered, leaning closer to the flame as he did.

He took a deep, thoughtful breath. "I felt, foolishly, that if Aro or the others were forced to see my pain as I watched them, then they would realize the wrongness in their actions. But they never did, of course." His brow furrowed in pity. "The damage of so many centuries is all too irreversible for one man to change."

His forlorn expression gave her the desperate urge to throw her arms about his neck and kiss him soundly – neither of which she could indulge.

"That was why you left," she guessed.

"Part of the reason," he sighed, beginning a tentative pace beside the windows as she watched. "Aro and his brothers persistently encouraged me to adopt their lifestyle. They told me the only cause of my distress was my own foolish abstinence; that if I were to give in to my thirst for human blood, I would find the satisfaction I so desperately sought. They were incessant. I came dangerously close to considering their offers until, eventually, I could bear it no more."

His slow pace came to a standstill, and his hand absently reached out to clutch the curtain again, as if he needed the slight support to remain standing. "My home never was with the Volturi," he said, his sigh filled with a soft sort of strength. His eyes swept over the landscape from the window, somehow assured with conviction. "I supposed it would do me better to avoid the temptation of their lifestyle altogether rather than to test my limits in resisting it. I knew I could never live with myself if I became the monster I had vowed to never become. _That_ was why I left."

Esme smiled distantly to herself as his solid annunciation stroked her ears. The steadfastness of this man's morality was painfully inspiring.

"You are a very brave and very wise man, Carlisle Cullen," she declared softly, and was promptly rewarded with his intensely surprised gaze. He blinked several times out of habit, clearly flattered to the point of being speechless for a short moment.

He looked away with a pensive smile. "I would deny it, but because I chose to leave, I found Edward... And I found you."

Her heart stung guiltily as she shook her head. "I've only caused you trouble since you found me."

"That could not be further from the truth, Esme," he quickly declined. But at her dubious glance, he smiled bashfully with an insecure chuckle. "Well, I suppose to an extent is has _some _truth..."

She looked down with a reluctant smile of apology.

He continued softly in earnest, "But I have not _once_ considered you a burden to me, and I want you to know this: The struggle over blood-lust is something all newborns must overcome; it is a natural part of your growth into this life, and it is nothing to be ashamed of."

"You expect me to feel no shame over murder?" she whispered doubtfully.

"On the contrary, I believe your shame is what will prove to be your ultimate salvation," he insisted gently. "Your devotion to virtue is a gift, Esme. You must never lose sight of it, for this sensitivity is what redeems our humanity."

He let go of the curtain to step towards her, and her nerves flinched under the subtle swell of his scent.

"What if it happens again?" she posed in a hushed voice. He said nothing at first and she panicked. "I don't ever want it to happen again," she whispered desperately, her eyes unfocused as she relived terrifying flashbacks of the incident through her memory.

The memories melted away, broken by the intrusion of Carlisle's face as he genuflected before her and placed one hand gently on her knee. "Do not worry yourself with the future. Live in the moment, never in fear."

Her trembling settled only mildly as she focused on the soothing heat of his touch. His hand slid forward slightly and he spoke in smooth, even tones, "You must also remember that you were not entirely at fault... I made this so much worse for you by being untruthful." She stared up at him in wide-eyed surprise. "I should have never left you in the dark," he murmured, rushed and painful, his eyes glistening with guilt as he turned his gaze to her feet.

Her eyes closed heavily and she bowed her head. "You cannot always take the blame, Carlisle."

"But I made the fault seem to be Edward's when in fact it was as much my own as his. I should have told you from the beginning why he left, but I was so ashamed of what you might think of me...if you knew that I wished your...husband dead."

"He is not my husband," she reminded softly. "He never was, Carlisle. You said it yourself. Our marriage was nothing."

"But that does not make it any less wrong," he whispered brokenly.

He lifted his eyes to gaze at her, wearing that perfectly pained look of vulnerability, and this time, when she longed to touch his face, she did not deny herself that touch.

Carefully she lifted one hand to press her palm against the cool marble plane of his cheek, and a slow, feeble shock trembled through her arm at the foreign feel of velvet contour beneath her fingertips. He fought admirably against the precious lassitude that tempted his eyelids to droop softly at the contact, and her heart fluttered as she caught the involuntary wilt of his lashes before he quickly revived his receptive stare.

Without the pressure to restrain her desire for this touch, it was remarkably easy to succumb to it. Without the nagging rejections of romance singing in her head, she _could _show him care. It was so easy...

"I could never blame you for thinking such things when I often thought them myself," she continued, her voice strong and certain despite the tremulous tickle in her throat. "Edward has shown the truth to both of us – we all wished Charles gone; we _all _felt there was some justice in it, no matter how wrong it might have been."

"We did..." Carlisle agreed, voice still laced with dwindling regret.

"You feel so much shame for these things, Carlisle. But you should listen to your son when he tells you that this shame is only destructive to you," her voice wavered, but it was with passion that she redeemed her strength. "You are so _good _all of the time. If you think one moment of weakness is reason enough to hate yourself, or even reason for _us _to hate you... you couldn't be more wrong."

His gaze dropped the faintest bit, as though his focus played toward her lips as she spoke. Her hand faltered against his face insecurely, as she wondered to what extent it was appropriate to elaborate her touch. She never found the courage, and so her aching caress remained, forever frozen upon his cheek. But as his head tipped gratefully against her open palm, by even the shyest of margins, she found that her entire body had been stunned. She could not have moved that hand if she wanted to.

"Oh, Esme," he breathed huskily, and her hand slipped away, weakening subconsciously with the sound of her name, little more than a sigh upon his breath. "You'll never know just how much you have taught me..."

Her eyes furrowed skeptically as he met her gaze. "But, the mistakes _I've _made—"

He interrupted her in a voice filled with hushed passion, "Can you not see that your mistakes will be insignificant so long as you leave them behind you?" He found her fallen hand and tucked it safely within his. "You said yourself we mustn't dwell on our mistakes."

A bitter taste filled her mouth as her words were twisted against her. "But mine are unforgivable," she countered automatically.

He was silent for a moment.

"Look at me," he pleaded, and she humbly raised her eyes. "Do you consciously recall making the decision to kill, Esme?" he whispered.

"No," she breathed weakly, lost within the redemptive sea of his gaze.

"Edward and I made a conscious decision to kill; _you _did not. You claim _we _deserve forgiveness. So why should _you_ be denied forgiveness?"

He paused to allow the realization to sink in, smiling softly at her.

"You are a good and moral woman beneath this," he said as he stroked the back of her hand with his fingers. "And you always will be. This is the first of many tests you will face, but with faith you will overcome every one of them."

She wanted to sob when he spoke like that. His voice, so sure and soothing, could have made the heavens weep. The injustice that any man's voice could sound like his was positively villainous.

Her hand fidgeted within his as the heat between them began to build like a suffocating wall, invisible and indestructible. She wished it would melt like a sheet of ice in a bonfire. But it was too hot. Hotter than any source which made melting simple. It was possible that they could push through it, and it would not go away, but instead it would blanket them...and they would be trapped together, suffocate together.

How long could they breathe and stare like this? How long before something snapped? Before she burst through the lush curtain of heat that surrounded him?

His lips parted, and the tiny motion, because it was a speck of dust in a sandstorm of emotion, put her every sense on alert. He still stared so deeply into her eyes that he must have been somewhere in the slippery mush of her brain by now. He was free to look upon her mind's eye.

Her lungs were working laboriously, and he must have noticed as his eyes fell to her chest, slid down her middle and came to a gentle rest where their hands fit like sad, solitary halves of a disturbingly perfect whole.

The grainy sap of her subconscious boiled as he placed his free hand over hers, with the solemn air of a priest giving a blessing. "Have faith, Esme," he whispered, eyes closed and heart open.

Her hand may as well have been liquid between his, but she was slightly shocked when he released her to find that it was miraculously whole again.

He rose gracefully to his feet and looked down at her with compassionate eyes. "Have faith, and you will never lose hope."

_Have faith. _

For the rest of the day, she repeated his words; she connected herself to his words. She tried to be a steadfast stallion of parables by paradox. She tried to be like him.

She took a Bible from his study when he was not looking, and hid it under her arm as she walked out. He had so many copies of the sacred anthology, surely he would never even miss it. If she had asked him for it, he would have gladly given it to her…but she did not want him to know.

It was an older book, worn at the corners, but it still had a sturdiness about it that only a Bible could maintain after years of use. It was dark in color – in some lighting it looked green, and in other lighting it looked blue. It was heavy.

She sat on the edge of her bed and held the Bible in her hand, but she did not open it. She just felt its weight, felt its holiness, and soaked them in.

She was what she was. A hopeful proselyte to Carlisle's faith. She was unread and unsung.

Esme kept the Bible in her bed that night, just holding it, but never opening it. Never did she read the Word with her own eyes.

Throughout the darkening hours she lay wide awake, and her eyes flickered with the strangest visions... Snapshots of her humanity rendered fantastical by her imagination.

Charles was there, his face still hauntingly unclear from her lack of memory, his voice like drops of iron echoing in an empty well. He was commanding her to offer herself to him; his hands were cold and rough on her arms, bending the bones beneath her flesh with insulting ease.

Only his voice was recognizable, in the absence of his terrible face. But she imagined him behind her as he carelessly stripped her garments from her helpless body. She could almost hear the bleak glint of his drunken eyes, the absinthe-inspired gust of his hot breath, heavy on the back of her neck. She cringed.

He clamped his hands around her waist as she struggled. She fought to save herself from his grip, pushed and pulled against his force to free herself from the traumatic trap she knew she had yet to face.

Then, right on that brink of horror, that heart-pounding second where doom was all but certain, everything stopped. The rough hands and hard force and the burn of alcohol-laden breath on her skin dissolved into something entirely new...

In this dream, her heartbeat softened. In this dream, where she had a heartbeat, where she had a thrumming pulse, it slowly melted away. Her eyes were still blurry, but the sounds became more clear.

The breath that washed over the back of her neck was not tinged with absinthe, but with the sweet, soothing spice of daydreams and forgotten prayers.

She was cold, naked, still shuddering from her first brutal encounter with the man who had almost destroyed her. But she now felt no shame, enveloped by the new warmth this unseen man offered her. Her bare flesh was protected under his clothed embrace, as he gently wound his arms around her body and held her with reverent care. His fingers nursed the bruises on her skin, their caress soft and certain, soothing away the ache in her limbs with each patient pass.

Esme knew this embrace. The recognition was immediate, alarming, but calming all at once.

She knew this was Carlisle.

Tiny flicks of frustration chipped away at her patience as she tried to face her compassionate captor. But this dream was not pliable. She would eventually grow tired of looking for his face, and surrender to only the _feel _of him behind her – the doctor's soothing, healing hands on her bare belly. Then, if she waited long enough, she would be blessed with the sounds of his voice.

Carlisle spoke to her in this dream – softly, seductively. But the words he whispered against her neck were of spiritual vocabulary. The words themselves made no sense as he strung them together, murmur after throaty murmur, but alone they were the answers he offered to her every unspoken question.

_"Redemption." _as he nuzzled her ear.

_"Faith." _as he stroked her collarbone.

_"Salvation." _as he pressed his warm body securely against hers.

Her body, trapped in two dimensions at once, was being suspended between his embrace and the quilts of her bed. The two mingled in a most disastrously pleasing way. And, by the will of her imagination, she was being held by Carlisle...in her bed.

_His slow, sure, smooth hands were moving across her vulnerable body. They felt warm in some places, chilling in others. They did things to her – wonderful, scandalous, beautiful things. _

She writhed against his unspeakable touch, needing more, seeking the very words he promised. But he never gave them.

The face she finally found in her subconscious belonged to neither her hero nor her destroyer. It was, she believed, the face of Christ. Blue, washed out, melancholy, with the words _Kyrie Eleison_ scripted beneath it.

Esme broke from this vivid daydream with a jolt, always trembling, more from disturbance than unrectified need.

She rolled over, her cheek still cold against the pillow, her hands clutching her thighs too tightly, the sheets clinging to her body as if they were trying to stop her from leaving.

She forced her thoughts to dwell on Carlisle. One of these days, she wanted to look into his eyes and see that he was simply a man. That he could make her feel a certain way, but this fault was not his own, and it was not another sin for which he could blame himself.

She thought long and hard about Carlisle's kindness, about his generosity, and his holiness, and a little about his sadness.

And these thoughts cooled the fire.

Carlisle was someone who needed her, perhaps as much as she might have needed him. But he needed her companionship, her understanding. He needed her to listen to him when he had no one else to speak to. Anything that would see them buried in this bed together was of such insignificance.

She was blind to think otherwise.

What he needed from her was something far more important, far more worth cherishing.

The morning came quickly, chasing away the residue of her throbbing imagination, and Esme rose from her bed with the Holy Word quivering in her hands.

On a whim of decision and a little out of fear, she took the Bible and raced to place it back where she had found it in Carlisle's study – on the small table by the window, next to the elaborate book of hours, under a tiny crystal sand dish filled with used matches.

After this dream, Esme supposed her faith would come with time, that it could not be fabricated overnight by memorizing scriptures she did not understand. The power of the Word alone was untouchable to someone with such small experience in the realm of the supernatural. She owed her faith to Carlisle, not to God Himself. It was a stubborn piece of her heart that felt she should wait a little longer, even just to please him.

She wanted _Carlisle _to open her heart to God. She did not want to read the words in unfeeling silence straight off the page, alone in her room. She wanted it to be _his _voice revealing the truth to her. Deep down, she wanted this. Yet she almost didn't believe it could happen, and this made her desire for it even stronger.

Esme's fingers lingered on the spine of the old book, intimidated by the foreign lettering, trying to piece together a dim golden puzzle. The only problem was, she did not know what the end result should be.

At the cruel catch of his scent behind her, she froze, and if she weren't utterly mad, she would have believed her skin had erupted into gooseflesh at being discovered out of place.

He was breathing. Not saying a word, just breathing.

She had to speak.

"What does _Kyrie Eleison_ mean?"

If he was surprised at the nature of her question, he did not show it.

"It is Greek," he said in the voice of a teacher, "and it means 'Lord Have Mercy.'"

"Do you ever say it?" she asked, her tone hushed. "When you pray?"

He was quiet for a long moment before he answered.

"Sometimes."

She twisted her hands insecurely against her middle.

"Does God ever speak to you?" she asked him, almost fearful that he would say 'yes.'

"Rarely," Carlisle admitted in a whisper. "But I always recognize His voice."

Unraveling her hands from their knot, Esme stared down sadly into the open flesh of her palm. Her finger dipped into the middle of her palm, tracing along the ironic remains of her life line toward the curve of her wrist.

For an instant it flashed before her eyes, twisted and limp, like the hand of a broken doll. There was a tiny smear of blood over flushed skin, then just as quickly, the pallid milk of perfection replaced it.

"He broke my wrist once." The words spoke themselves, stretching mysteriously through the air to the man who listened from behind her. "I never told anyone. Even _he_ didn't know."

Carlisle was breathing again. Heavily. And Esme knew how aware he was, just from the lightest disturbances in the pattern of his breath. He knew of whom she spoke.

He tried to console her.

"My father used to strike me when I disobeyed him." His voice was weighed down by understanding, concern, and something else – something fragile and disconnected. The child inside of Carlisle was confiding in her, sharing his darkest secrets – trustingly, foolishly.

"Carlisle..."

She turned around to face him, ready to hush his words, but his lips were already moving.

"My hands had gashes in them..." he murmured, his eyes rusty with shame, "I always held them closed so no one would see."

He was doing it again. Twisting his hand in that awkward way against his hip. His palm was closed in on itself, defensive and helpless. She longed to reach out for that hand and open it to the world, to show him there were no gashes there anymore.

"He told me...I was an ungrateful son..."

"Carlisle."

His name sounded like the soft power of religion itself as she whispered it, and his gaze was afire for her voice.

Shyly, she stepped forward, reaching out with her fingers to explore his limp hand. She lifted it for a moment or two, and it felt very heavy as she bent his fingers back gently, just enough to see that his palm was clear. Open in her hands, she showed him how perfect it was. Smooth, white, pure, and good. Every single line in his palm spoke of his goodness.

"I see no gashes," she whispered comfortingly, and laid his hand back against his hip with care.

He swallowed hard, looking as if he were on the verge of tears. "The venom masks the wounds, but it cannot heal them."

His voice was so low she had to inch a little closer to hear him.

Or perhaps this was just a pitiful excuse for nearness.

"You're right. It cannot," she agreed sadly.

Her tongue moistened her lip as she stared up into his weepy eyes.

"Pain often works in mysterious ways," he murmured, his accent overpowering in his hushed voice.

Esme tilted her head to the side, trying to place why these words sounded so thick with familiarity. "How so?" she inquired.

Faithful to his stillness, Carlisle replied softly, "Without pain we would never know a good feeling when we felt it."

Her heart found it appropriate to simmer at the sensuous truth of his words. An airy "Oh" was all she could offer in reply.

"It makes you wonder, does it not?" he asked delicately.

She carefully skirted the direction of his question. "I've never wondered about pain. I just learned to live with it." Her words sounded so dark even to her own ears. She immediately wished she hadn't spoken them just to fill the silence.

A silky shadow veiled over Carlisle's eyes, his beautiful face remarkably intense.

"He hurt you... Every day, didn't he?" His voice was softer and deeper than distant thunder.

She knew what Carlisle had been trying to ask. He was weaving the questions, piece by piece into the conversation. But she was shocked that he had now chosen to address it so forwardly.

"I...I can't remember," she excused lamely, rubbing her forehead with her fingers.

Her stomach flipped as Carlisle gently captured her restless fingers and stilled her.

"He hurt you," he stated, hard and husky.

"My memory is—"

"Do not cast these memories aside with such haste, Esme. They resurface for a reason – they _want _to be recognized. They _need _to be acknowledged." He was being such a doctor. It almost infuriated her, but at the same time...

Oh, who was she fooling? It was wonderful.

"I don't want to remember," she whimpered weakly, her fingers struggling in his grasp. He wouldn't let her go. Instead, he lowered their linked hands between them again and touched her firmly with his gaze.

"But you do," he countered in a piercing whisper.

She almost panicked, her feet unstable and knees quaking as she fought to stay standing before him. "I'm beginning to…" she admitted breathlessly.

He stepped closer, his body warm and fortress-like, blocking out the cruel, cold world around her.

"It's all right," he whispered tenderly, gripping her a little bit tighter when he heard her heart crackle. "I'm here. I will listen if you want to speak."

She did want to speak.

As much as she _despised _the thought of speaking, she _passionately wished _to speak. For Carlisle.

She squeezed her eyes shut and breathed in his scent, letting the words roll off her tongue. "All I remember is the pain," she told him monotonously.

He gasped, so softly she wondered if he actually did gasp at all. Maybe she had imagined it. But she could feel the lush pressure of his attention, knowing he was hanging on her every breath.

"I used to wish for my childhood doctor," she revealed somewhat wistfully, "to heal me again."

Carlisle's eyes widened by the slightest of margins in a tiny burst of acknowledgment, strangely devoid of any true surprise.

Driven by her aching heart, Esme desperately but tentatively thrust her hand against the center of his chest. "It still hurts," she whispered. Her chin was practically trembling.

The silent will in her eyes was pleading him, begging him to bear her burden, just for this moment. Her breath hitched as she waited, on the brink of breaking before he would accept her in the wake of his mercy.

A chill raced through her as he leveled her perfectly healthy hand in his, the aches and stings returning with each tender caress of his fingers around her wrist.

She whimpered. "It won't go away."

Then his hand at rest twitched, raised slowly, and curved snugly around the other side of her wrist, trapping her. Esme's eyes felt heavy as they soaked in the sight. Her lips, feeling just the same, could not seem to press together.

"Can God take away the pain?" she asked in a hopeful whisper.

Beseeching butterscotch eyes fluttered closed as Carlisle bowed his head, barely daring to move.

Esme swallowed and lifted her chin a little higher, refusing to give up. "Will He take away my memories if I ask Him to?"

Carlisle brought her hand a little closer to his heart. "He will bring you better memories, Esme."

She looked down at his feet, shaking her head. "There are so many things I want to forget. But I _can't _forget," she murmured, bewildered. "I couldn't remember, and now I can't forget…"

Carlisle closed the space between them and tucked her head against his shoulder, still holding her hand between their bodies.

"I cannot forget either."

Because he was so close, his confession stirred inside of her.

She could not even respond because he was so soft and firm and strong, and cold and warm in so many different places. And he was so incredibly closeto her that it would have appeared to any outside witness that they were attached.

But they were not. She did not _feel _attached to him. And this was a shamefully inadequate feeling to have while being held by the one she loved with all her might.

No matter how close they were, there was still something missing. No matter how close, distance could still be measured between them_. _Being connected would mean _negative _distance – the impossible value she feared they would never possess. But she would always want it.

"Stay with me."

Carlisle's words were an infuriating cross between those of a passionate lover and those of a child asking for his mother's embrace in the dark.

"I can't go anywhere," she reminded with a pitiful little laugh that faded into nothing, her lips brushing the fabric on his shoulder.

"Then just stay here," he said, simple and soft. "Maybe forever."

She sobbed inside because _these_ were both the worst and the best sort of words to hear.

"I'm not sure that I believe in forever."

He sighed, every disappointment of the world a silent chime upon his breath. "Then just stay with me for as long as we last."

All she could do was nod against his shoulder and hope he knew she was nodding, her lips brushing faithfully against his shirt at the slightest motion.

She was kissing cotton.

* * *

_**A/N: **__Carlisle and Esme are slowly opening up to one another about their insecurities, and although revealing secrets about themselves can sometimes be painful, in a positive sense it brings them much closer to each other. I also wanted to show that they are both equally capable of healing the other when they offer comfort. What did you think about their conversations in this chapter? _


	38. An Accidental Need

**Chapter 38:**

**An Accidental Need **

* * *

Sometimes things were still so daunting to think about.

Sometimes she still found herself, scrunched up on the very edge of the bed, unable to bear being in the dark alone any longer. Some nights she couldn't daydream her way seamlessly through to the sunrise.

Once Edward came to her in the night. She sent him quiet pictures of the child who haunted her mind, and he held her hand and told her it was all over. But she still thought about it.

It was impossible to cast a perfect memory in iron and never look upon it again.

The sky was soft outside her bedroom windows. It was blanket-like, stretching forever, covering the stars beyond with a layer of smoky indigo haze. There were fine tendrils of palest blue creeping over the edge of the horizon, like the stars had melted and sunk to the bottom, leaving ghostly trails in their wake. Esme longed to touch them, longed to feel that something beyond this house held promise for her.

But the bright, wild blue became the eyes of _the child_, and she turned her face away from the sky at once.

That fire inside her chest was still burning strong, charring the bottom of her heart with each passing hour. No matter how many gentle confessions of sharing this pain Carlisle offered her, he could never fully quench this fire...and she could never fully quench his.

All they could do was try. And at the time, trying seemed to be enough.

But when it left her alone at night, Esme began to doubt its subtle powers.

She had imagined Carlisle as a young, helpless boy, being beaten by his father. She had imagined how his small, pale hands would look with the tender pink gashes drawn straight through the center of his smarting palms. She was filled with rage as she envisioned it. If Carlisle's father had only known he was desecrating the hands of the man who would one day be a healer; that his son would one day make it his duty to save lives and touch souls.

How could a father be so heartless?

Esme's eyes glistened with pity, imagining the terrors her loving doctor once had to endure. These images, once branded in her mind, were now just as impossible to erase as the innocent face of her victim...

Carlisle had once told her these kinds of thoughts would break through every now and again. He had told her not to fear them, not to repress them. He expected her to know bravery as only a warrior would. Though taking Carlisle's advice was frightfully easy, it was more difficult than she thought it would be to follow through with it.

At night Esme surrendered to these kinds of thoughts again. The darkness fed them power, and they were stronger than ever before. Her worries sickened her here in the dark, looming around her like unfriendly shadows stalking an unsuspecting maiden. Distractions were plenty, but the memories of her murder came crashing ruthlessly in, brushing away all barriers she had ever built to protect herself from them.

Esme waited for Edward to come and save her from the familiar torment. He must have heard the waves of her distress, must have heard that the ocean of her despair was especially angry tonight. He always came to her when he heard these nightly episodes. He always came to offer his help.

Tonight, he simply had chosen not to come. He had left her to fend for herself.

Rather than surrender to the evil trickery of this dark bedroom alone, Esme somehow summoned the courage to seek out Carlisle in Edward's absence.

This time when she opened the door to peek out of her bedroom, she felt less like a child who feared the dark. This time she felt like a daring damsel, plotting to escape evil spirits. In her footsteps, she felt a weight of maturity, a sense of direction. She _knew _where she was going; she knew the man she sought.

Acting out a single page of a dark fairy tale, Esme rushed through the hall and down the stairs, her relief building inside of her as she reached the haven where he was usually found. She looked for him in his study, but he was absent from the room. Quickly, her senses directed her back through the winding corridors, following his scent, curiously enough, to the kitchen. Gently, she pushed open the door and found him standing before the counter with a measuring tube of some kind in one hand, a medicine bottle in the other.

There were candles around the counter, at least a dozen of them. Even though there were several oil lamps specifically placed there for kitchen use, Carlisle made use of none. The slim steeples of wax blazed softly around him, dancing quietly from the breeze of her entry. It looked as if he were performing some strange nightly ritual before an altar.

It also looked oddly inviting.

Carlisle stared up in surprise at her unexpected entrance, his fingers wavering with the threat to ruin whatever fragile concoction he was preparing.

"May I stay in here?" she asked, feeling like a homeless woman begging for shelter for the night.

Luckily, this homeless woman had come to the door of the most compassionate soul on earth.

"Of course," he whispered. It unsettled her that his voice had not been a bit stronger, but she welcomed herself in nonetheless. Cautious not to disrupt the creative process of his medicinal meddling, she approached him slowly from the side, casually leaning against the counter to watch.

"Are you feeling well?" he asked quietly.

"Mmhm," she replied absently. "Edward and I hunted this morning."

"Good," he whispered again. It was nighttime, yes, but why should he keep his voice so low? Perhaps he just was so used to being around sleeping patients.

Esme's eyes were distracted by the careful motions of Carlisle's hands as he tipped the medicine bottle to fill a small, clear tube with a dark, poison-scented liquid.

Hand held to her stomach, Esme grew squeamish as she briefly considered that some unfortunate human might have to ingest the stuff.

"Carlisle?" she inquired, his quietness rubbing off on her.

"Hm?" Even that tiny hum of a question sounded so warm coming from him.

She sighed. "What are you making?"

"I'm not making anything—just measuring out proper doses of medicine for each of my patients," he explained as if she were just a curious child. It must have been obvious that she was in a somewhat delicate state right then.

"Oh."

Her eyes drifted up the length of his arm until they rested on his profile. That profile had become so painfully familiar to her. There was a noble strength to the classical angles, but something about Carlisle's profile had always struck Esme as being inherently sad. She didn't know why, but it was perhaps her sensitivity as an artist that led her to find a melancholic softness to the slope of his cheeks, the rise of his forehead, the dip of his nose, the line of his jaw. Candlelight was disturbingly kind to his face.

A pang hit her heart as his eyelashes closed and opened slowly, as his chin lifted slightly, and a soft breath left his lips.

She wanted to tell him every one of her secrets because of the way he had blinked, the way he had tilted his head back, the way he had breathed.

He clearly sensed her stare, and it showed in the set of his features then. She would have looked away, but why would any woman look away from such beauty?

"You usually prefer to stay upstairs during the night," his comforting voice came into the silence. "What brought you down here?"

_I was lonely. _

She longed to say it, her lips just aching with the words. _I am lonely until I am by your side._

But instead, she revealed the reason behind her loneliness.

"You remember when you told me that I would have certain... thoughts, sometimes? And that I shouldn't try to ignore them when they came about?"

She felt his curiosity.

"More memories?" he supposed, almost sounding hopeful.

"It's a little different than that," she whispered cautiously, knowing she was bordering discomfort with the subject at hand. Carlisle took a quiet breath, and though she wasn't even looking at him, she could sense that he had glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

"Do you want to talk about it?" His voice was so gentle it made her want to sob.

Before she could control the action, she had reached out for him, her fingers clasping his sweater against his side. At first it seemed he hadn't noticed, but as soon as her clutch on him tightened, he dropped everything to tend to her. Quite literally, dropped everything in his hands. The heavy scent of the medicine made her stomach twist as the dark syrup bled across the counter from where it had spilled. Even the candle flames around them seemed to tremble in fright.

"Esme—" His voice was urgent now. Not quiet. Not a whisper.

Her hands gripped the front of his shirt, quivering all over uncontrollably as he turned to face her. "Do you think the mother is dying from the grief of losing her child?"

He released the breath he had been holding in a slow, sweet gust across her forehead, and she shivered. His lips were tremulous with unspoken and inadequate words, struggling to think of something to say. He looked so desperate, so lost, yet so determined, so _fixated_ on offering some kind of help to her.

The strain of his frustration slipped away, freeing his jaw to move slowly in speech. "Esme...You cannot worry over things like that."

"I must worry. What else can I do?" she gasped, sputtering in outrage that he would even consider it possible that she _not _worry. "I have nothing else, Carlisle. My heart aches, so terribly, because I _know_ what it is like to lose a child! Somewhere out there, a woman is in mourning, and it is all my fault—"

"Children are lost every day, Esme. Every day," his voice verged on being harsh with the effort to make her understand. She was shocked by the outright discomfort in his words at first. Just as quickly as his voice had risen, it dropped again to the patient murmur she knew. "It is a fact of life. It will happen whether we choose to ignore it or acknowledge it. But we mustn't _obsess _over it. You're only destroying yourself by thinking of things like that."

The logic coming from Carlisle's lips suddenly filled her in forces unintended. They were never more the lips of a doctor than they were now **– **the soft, pink, delicate bows of flesh made for speaking truth. She breathed raggedly, trying to absorb his good sense as her heart thumped wildly in her imagination.

"I must be filled with demons," she sobbed.

His arms swung around her fiercely, pulling her in against him. The wonderful force of it almost knocked her breathless. "Esme, that is _preposterous_."

"I don't want to think about terrible things anymore," she whimpered, shaking her head against his chest as if to rub away the thoughts from her mind. "I just want to forget everything and move on!"

His hands held firmly to her back as she shuddered through the sobs, and only when her body was too tired to carry on did he allow his arms to release her. He took her head between both his hands and gazed at her for a long time, as if the heat of his stare would somehow melt away the grief, if he only stared long enough.

"Esme, do you know how many times a day 'terrible things' will cross my mind?" he whispered. "Countless," he answered himself. "But I trust that the pain holds a purpose. I know that, in the end, something good will always come out of something evil." His voice softened as the edge of his finger stroked across her cheek.

"But why can't I forget _this_? Why can I not put it behind me?" she demanded pitifully.

As he saw her agony, his expression changed to a look of purest, strangest admiration. It almost floored her, the utter fondness that flooded his eyes, and she wondered why her hopeless questions had struck him in such a way.

Her eyes furrowed as he cupped her cheeks against his palms and lifted her face ever so slightly to receive the fullness of his gaze.

"Because you have a _reckless_ heart, Esme," he declared breathlessly, his words lighting a welcome fire in her heart. "And that is a wonderful thing. It is a _gift_." His brows arched lightly over his sparkling eyes, dimples blossoming shyly in his cheeks as he allowed himself to smile. "I know that it can feel like a curse, but you must believe me when I tell you that it is anything but. You have every reason to rejoice in the fierceness of your sympathy, your compassion..."

She almost laughed. "Rejoice? Forgive me, but rejoicing is the last thing I feel like doing these days."

His eyes saddened at her thoughtless comment, and she instantly regretted her words. Before she could apologize, he interrupted her with a forgiving whisper.

"Surely you can find that for every terrible thought you have, a wonderful thought will always have the power to chase it away."

What he had said was undeniable, and proven just from the plethora of wonderful thoughts that rushed through her mind as his touch streamed over her face. She could only gather that the wonderful thoughts Carlisle gave her just by being present were chasing away the terrible thoughts as he spoke...

Esme blinked over venom-coated eyes and sighed, still quivering from her cry. "Tell me something wonderful?" she pleaded.

He looked at first sad, then relieved, then gently amused, his golden eyes rekindling their warm fire of kindness she knew so well. "Tomorrow there will be sunshine," he whispered, and this time she accepted his quiet pitch with grateful ears.

"How do you know that?" she asked with a weak, dubious smile.

"Just a feeling," he sighed pensively, stroking back a silky curl from her forehead. "Can't you feel when the sun is coming?" he asked, as though everyone had uncanny perception of oncoming weather.

Her smile was not so weak as she caught the flash of humor in his gentle eyes. "Sometimes."

"Do you not feel it now?" he asked with a glimpse at the window, daring her to challenge his hopeful prediction.

Blindly, Esme gave a slow nod of her head, not even bothering spare a glance for the window when his face was so close. Sunshine or not, no light could be brighter than the light she found in Carlisle's gaze.

"I think I do," she agreed. And she quivered no more.

******-}0{-**

It was indeed a very sunny day that followed the long, cold night. Edward had left for the post office well before the sun had risen, but his return was made with haste as he came dangerously close to being seen in the daylight. If it had been Carlisle caught outside, he would have never made it in time. Edward's speed was an endless blessing.

The boy burst through the doors with his overfilled satchel spilling papers all over the floor. He groaned and scooped up the mess in his rush to get inside, as if the sunlight refracting off his skin were painful to endure any longer.

"Have you been to the post office lately?" Edward asked his father as he entered the sitting room, his tone darkened by suspicion.

Carlisle looked up, his eyes a bit wider, innocently startled. "No..." he began warily, sensing his son's distress.

Edward sighed as patiently as possible. "Well, they're very angry with you."

"What for?"

"Precisely _that,_" the teenager laughed curtly. "You never go_. I _always pick up our mail. They wonder where the hell you are all of the time. Do you know what it's like for me to go in there and hear their suspicious little thoughts beating around my head?" He twirled a finger theatrically in the air beside his temple.

Carlisle straightened, rubbing the tension from the soft space between his eyes with the pad of his thumb. "What business is it of theirs if I send my _nephew _to retrieve my mail?"

Edward leaned against the door jamb with a shrug. "There's something about the confidentiality. They have these new laws going around. They're thinking of only allowing the addressed person to pick up his mail."

Carlisle laughed humorlessly as he slid the writing desk drawer shut. "Well that can't be going over well with everyone else."

"I never said it was, but you have to show your face there once in a while," Edward warned. "Mr. Sageman thinks I'm keeping the envelopes with money in them for myself."

Carlisle discreetly covered his lips with one hand.

"It's not amusing, Carlisle."

"I'm sorry."

"Just—Fix it, will you?" Edward's eyes were disconcertingly pleading, his voice surprisingly soft though he spoke a clear demand. "Fix it..."

He was trying to say something more.

Carlisle caught onto this rapidly, his eyes opening gently as he stepped forward.

"Son..."

Edward habitually took a step back, his back stiffening. "I know. I'm sorry, Carlisle. I'm just...a little restless." There was a noticeable shudder of shame in the boy's low voice.

Carlisle glanced uneasily back at Esme, who shifted in uncertainty, aware that her presence may not have been favored during what was likely a more private conversation.

"Do you want to try the academy again?" Carlisle asked Edward softly.

For a moment the boy looked surprised, and slightly proud that his father would consider this.

"I've...been thinking about it."

A small, careworn smile crossed Carlisle's lips. "That's good."

Edward smiled wryly in return, his eyes flicking to Esme once again. Then his smile faded.

"But—I wouldn't want to leave Esme behind unless she felt ready to be on her own."

Carlisle's head turned around instantly to find the quiet woman behind him, his face all but agonized by inconsideration. For a minute, both men stared silently at her, and her heart slowly crumbled, silently summarizing all the ways she was a hindrance to their hopes of leading a normal life.

With a pained smile of apology, Carlisle turned back to his son and whispered, "We'll discuss it another time, Edward."

Nodding solemnly, Edward excused himself from the room.

Several tense moments after his departure, the predictable glitter of piano keys echoed through the hall. Carlisle closed the door carefully before turning back to Esme.

At the stab of his gentle eyes, she rose from her chair and walked ghostlike toward the frosty window.

"I keep him in the house," she murmured tonelessly. "All of the time... He feels trapped here, all because of me."

"Esme..." The doctor's voice was so close behind her, almost moaning her name. It was a forceful drawl, but soft enough to frustrate her, to ignite within her a fierce need to feel some sort of vibration. Despite his closeness, she felt nothing.

"It's so unfair to him," she mourned, touching the window with delicate, wistful fingers.

Carlisle's hand pressed flush against the cold glass, beside and a little above her own. Together they pretended to touch the horizon as their pale fingers brushed the treetops and encouraged the frost.

"We all make sacrifices to keep one another safe," Carlisle told her, his voice low, tired, but hopelessly patient. She was surprised to catch the warmth of his mood as he continued on a lighter note, "You've made him feel like a hero, Esme. Truly." She couldn't help but smile sadly at the faint truth in his words. Carlisle's voice was just a breath against the shell of her ear. "Trust me when I tell you this: Edward thoroughly enjoys his role as your caregiver while I am away."

The temptation to fall back against the warm chest behind her was almost impossible to resist.

Her thoughts were certain, but her tone was dubious. "How do you know that?"

"I know my son well enough," he implied enigmatically. "He loves watching over you."

As the sound of the piano softened, her breath shortened. Carlisle's hand caressed the sky through the window, melting the frost on his way toward her hand. Gently, he collected her weak wrist and guided her hand back down to earth.

"_I_ love watching over you."

A tiny explosion of innocent pleasure burst beneath her breast.

"You do?"

"Yes," he whispered fervently. "Do not ever think of yourself as a burden, because you could never be a burden to us."

A warm wave of relief curled around her toes, stretching lazily up her body until it settled in her heart. Carlisle must have felt it too. His body seemed to relax behind her, his hand cupped surely around her wrist, slowly lowering to her side.

"Regardless of being the reason we must stay inside so often, you must remember that Edward and I are male," he teased quietly, "Naturally we enjoy protecting the female."

A shy giggle whispered in her throat as she leaned back gratefully against his arm.

Carlisle sighed, his breath thick with the beauty of sheer contentment.

"One of these days, Esme," he said, his voice heavy, sure, but longing all the same. "I cannot remind you enough. One day you will wonder how it all seemed so hopeless..."

******-}0{-**

She believed him.

Truly, honestly, she did.

But a bit of that faith wore away with every nuisance of an obstacle that plucked her path.

There were incidents. Occasionally, there were times when she was so utterly and entirely through with this feeling of having no control. These were called "incidents."

They were not "accidents," because an accident held no purpose, no motivation from the start. An incident occurred when one started out on the wrong foot from the beginning. Accidents sneaked up from behind her while incidents blasted her from the front.

The panic set in whenever she caught the scent. Edward tried to catch her before it happened, but sometimes he was too late. Sometimes he was just as panicked. Those times were the worst.

She never knew when it would rear its head. She could be sitting alone by the fireplace with a book in her lap, her eyes shifting around the room, always wary, but never wary enough. Like a great blaze of ruptured power, it would tumble over her, send her bolting from her chair, the pages scattered on the floor like large paper leaves. Her footsteps took her down the stairs, each pound growing further and further away in her ears, their echoes heavier as she reached rock bottom.

This was exactly how it happened.

She found him standing there, half-way through the front door, full in the open threshold. He looked so much like the end of everything, so much like the answer to everything. His body blocked bits of sun rays which twinkled haphazardly upon his golden hair, his face spattered with wretched concern as she flashed down the stairs to bump into him. Hard.

His body refused hers, as was the law of physics to serve. With a tough _crack,_ she was sent backward on her heels, but her arms had somehow become linked around his shoulders. She was pasted impressively against him. So tight.

Her mind screamed for help, but the request was senseless in silence.

Carlisle was stunned, and he was absolutely still as if this were the most frightening thing that had ever happened to him. And he was beautiful throughout all of it. So tall and...hard, and...beautiful.

Before Esme's eyes there were little cotton fibers, pure and white, dancing in tiny strains to taunt her. She wanted something from them, but they would not give it to her. Her nose was pressed into something soft and slightly crisp. Her chin was bedded in more dancing fibers, and her face was warm and comfortable, but her senses were bristling with fire.

_What on earth was happening? _

It took her a long moment to adjust, to find her bearings and realize...

Her face was buried in Carlisle's sweater.

"It's just me. It's just me..." he was murmuring, his soft words sounding slightly drunken in her muddled ears.

But her nose was tingling with dulcet hope, her throat was simmering for the quench it had been falsely promised, her eyes were watering with thick, gelatin-like venom.

There was blood somewhere on his person.

Through some tender manipulation, Carlisle managed to bring Esme's head up, coaxing her nose away from the tainted cotton.

"Shh, look," he said in a low voice, then suddenly repeated it, firmer. "Look, Esme."

Her eyes focused slowly on something that looked like smooth, pale pink ceramic. The closer she looked, the clearer its texture became in her mind. It looked more and more appealing, more like something she should reach up and touch... So she did.

The tips of her fingers collapsed against the strange texture. It was stiff as it had looked to be, but it gave beneath her touch the slightest bit, like cool white clay. There was a tenseness about it as her fingers explored further, then a noticeable strain beneath the surface...like flickering muscle.

And when she came to her senses, she realized the texture she had been feeling was Carlisle's neck.

"It's only on my clothes," he told her, his voice deep and secretive.

The backs of her knees felt a familiar prickling of mildly pleasant heat.

"What...?" Her own voice was unrecognizable, still fuzzy and half-asleep.

"See?" His whisper was warm on her forehead as he carefully tugged the sides of his sweater apart to show her the tiny sprinkle of blood marks on the white fabric beneath.

Esme was embarrassingly shocked that her reaction was so strong for something so small and insignificant.

Her hands fell away from his body, shaking violently from the horror of it all. Her eyes squeezed shut, and she tried to think up a proper apology, but her mouth was too dry to speak.

"You're fine. You're fine," Carlisle soothed, rubbing her back with one hand while the other redid the buttons on his sweater. "Shh, it's nothing, dear. You're fine."

But she was not fine. She was not fine if just a dot of dry blood could send her into such a frenzy. Whatever progress she had once made with Carlisle's aid was worth nothing now. Not after her accident.

As she was wont to do these days, Esme broke apart in a pitiful hurricane of humiliated sobs.

Carlisle was miraculously underwhelmed by her reaction, and this reassured her just the faintest bit. This obstacle was something that would haunt her for a long time to come. Carlisle's hesitant words that this was only just the beginning made Esme's hopes bleed. She knew it was true that she still had a ways to go in perfecting her control, and now she knew that pretending it was all over would only amplify that truth.

"Shhh... It was my fault," he murmured regretfully, his embrace struggling around her back. "I should have forewarned you."

Esme stabbed at his heart once with a frustrated fist. She was so sick of him always placing the blame on himself. It only made her feel more guilty. It had to stop.

Partly stunned, Carlisle seemed to read her unappreciative gesture quite clearly. His mouth closed, and she heard his breath shorten above her. Then he brought his hand across her shoulder to lift the edge of one fallen sleeve off her dress.

She looked up, softly startled at his unexpected adjustment. He smiled wanly in return, but his eyes were somewhere else entirely – somewhere dark and reclusive. Somewhere she wanted to be as well...

"Better now?"

Her head panicked as a fresh wave of the scent assaulted her nose. His voice was drifting away again.

Carlisle immediately unwrapped Esme from his arms and drew back, putting a small distance of safety between their bodies.

"Esme," he warned, and she supposed his voice was sharp, but she could scarcely hear it.

The little red spots were prancing before her eyes again.

"Let me go, dear," he was pleading, but she didn't know why. "Esme, let go."

The shadows of his voice were patient but urgent, scraping out the muttering seduction in her ears. Grasping the last coherent thought that managed to make it into her mind, Esme looked down and found her fingers snagged onto the front of his sweater.

Without looking at him, she tore her hand away, pulling bits of sweet cottony fibers beneath her nails. She whimpered, and Carlisle touched her arm briefly before heading for the hall. "Do not move," he ordered.

Esme leaned pathetically against the banister, her head lying on her elbow as she peered through strands of her hair to watch him disappear from sight.

It felt like her heart was drumming inside of her, like her eyes and nose were burning, just waiting for blood. It was a gloriously terrible feeling. Only Carlisle could help it go away.

Unthinkingly, Esme lifted her head, the silky tresses of hair parting way for her eyes as she did so. Her ears were roused to several curious sounds coming from the sitting room, just a few steps out of her way. Instinct led her to move in the direction of the strange ambiance. It was promising, though she knew not _what _it promised.

Something in the ground called for her feet to come back to their previous spot, but she ignored it. All that mattered were those soft, swishing, scraping sounds in the next room.

Her curious scarlet eyes blinked in the crevice of the partly opened door. Carlisle was there, standing before the glow of the fireplace, his hands finishing up the last buttons on his sweater. Her heart warmed fondly as he pulled the thick piece of clothing away with a sigh. She expected him to set it aside on the sofa or a nearby chair, or even on the floor, but with a fling of his hand, he cast it into the fire.

Her eyes narrowed in confusion as he stood back cautiously from the blaze. His silhouette darkened, saturated by a flimsy frame of red and orange flames. She almost opened the door then. She almost went inside to make her presence known.

But he was still busy with something in front of the fire. His movements were not so clear in the darkness, but her eyes were sharper than she gave them credit to be. His wrists were twisting in front of his chest, his hands traveling further down, each second or two punctuated by a quiet plucking sound...

She almost ran away. But her feet were married to the ground.

He breathed heavily, as if a great weight were being taken off his shoulders. But the thin cotton shirt he wore weighed next to nothing.

The crackling fire seemed to purr as he slid the fabric off one arm, then the other. Esme's thoughts were lightheaded, flustered and hot, as she watched Carlisle disrobe himself before the trembling flames.

She tried not to look – she wasn't _really_ looking. Perhaps she would have been if the lighting had not been so poor.

The sight itself was frustratingly muted by the contrast of glowing red behind his deep black silhouette. A warm splash of soft firelight slipped around his side, highlighting the chiseled geography of muscle across his torso. But it was just an instant for her wandering eyes – just one seizing moment when she saw it – where her tongue felt weak and her body was stricken with a warm, wanton vulnerability.

The image settled itself quietly inside her memory like hot glue. Just _his body_ – heavy, masculine, tall, smooth, and utterly innocent to the caress of her eyes.

He lifted one exquisite arm and, with a ripple of fine, pale skin, tossed the blood-stained shirt into the fire.

The sudden spice of venom streamed beneath her tongue, an immediate danger to her whereabouts. Terrified, Esme took off for the staircase, barely touching the floor as she ran.

The wild call of the blood was gone now, destroyed by the hands of her caring doctor. He was doing all of this _for her. _Hushing her, reassuring her, undressing himself...all for her own good. Esme felt so terribly guilty to think of this.

She listened to his movements, faster even than hers had been, up the steps and down the hall. The slip of fabric against skin taunted her yet again, and she guessed he was redressing himself. A part of her was almost disappointed that he had chosen to behave so properly. Of course, it would be utterly ridiculous and awkward for them both if he were to intrude upon her with nothing covering his torso...

"Esme?" he called to her, his voice sweet and hushed.

"Here," she replied in a catching breath as his shadow appeared on the door to her library. He carefully nudged the door with his knuckles and peeked around the side before stepping in.

His eyes showed concern for her, and it was only natural. She was seated on the very edge of her reading chair, her hands clutching her knees, still trembling with the after-effects of something that had yet to be determined.

"It will happen again," she said stoically.

Carlisle brushed his fingers through his hair and stepped over to her. Her eyes met with his belly briefly before he reached down to drag the coffee table closer so he could sit across from her. From the new angle, her eyes were looking down into his, just slightly. Somehow this was comforting to her. He was looking up at her.

"You should not worry yourself over _when_ it will happen again," he said, reiterating her concern. "Prepare for the worst, hope for the best, and accept whichever comes along."

He said this as if it were simple to accept and to practice. As if innocent lives were _not_ at stake.

His elbows were resting on his knees, and his hands were folded, suspended between them. Her eyes got caught on his white fingers where they were loosely laced together, and he twitched under her intrusive stare. Self-consciously, he drew his knees closer together – ever so slightly – but she noticed, and her stomach stirred as she looked quickly away.

"It's so easy for you," she quietly accused.

Carlisle sighed. "Esme, I grow weary of reminding you: it was not always so simple for me. Neither was it for Edward," his voice was slightly frustrated as he said this, and Esme cringed. Carefully, he smoothed his tone to a gentler one. "It was heartbreaking for us both, just as it is for you."

Quite suddenly, Esme felt her guilt amplify. Was she being ungrateful by voicing her distress all of the time? Should she apologize for feeling so sorry for herself?

Her mouth opened to speak, but she could summon no words. Instead, her lower lip trembled as Carlisle's face grew sullen. He seemed to be caught in a struggle of his own, his tongue peeking out against his teeth every so often as if he were longing to say something. Finally when he spoke, his voice was shy and uncertain, so hopeful she wanted to cry.

"If I may say so, your…circumstances are…fortunate…"

Their eyes met, and the hope was reflected between them.

_Fortunate. Oh, she was so much more than fortunate. She was blessed. _

Her hand reached out instinctively and found his. His fingers were cool to the touch, not as warm as she had thought they would be. Carlisle breathed deeply, closing his eyes in submission as his hand opened up for her. She set her palm graciously into his, and his hand swallowed hers whole.

"Yes, I am fortunate to have you," she amended, her throat tight. "_Both _of you."

_Always the last-second thought._

Carlisle did something rather remarkable then. Curiously, his free hand lifted from his lap to mingle with their one-to-one connection. Esme's breath shortened as his fingers blossomed around her hand, opening her to the light. He stared for a moment or two, then slowly turned her hand around to lie palm up in his grasp. Both his hands cupped her hand from underneath, holding her steady for his eyes to swallow every detail.

Two of his hands, around one of hers. The attention was overwhelming enough, but when his fingers began to trace the inside of her palm, she almost had to pull her hand away. Carlisle could be so indecent with his touch sometimes... She could only suppose it had something to do with never being touched in a loving manner as a child.

"If you were exposed to blood more often, I think you would find it less intimidating…" he suggested quietly. But as his thumb pressed lightly into the inside of her smallest finger, she could take no more.

She shuddered away.

"You did it once before," he reminded, his voice low. "You were doing so well, Esme."

Her hand was still trembling from being held by his, and she conveniently slid it between the cushions so he wouldn't see.

"But it wasn't enough," she added gloomily.

"Stop that," he reprimanded in a soft sort of hiss. She bowed her head down to hide, but he caught her chin with one deft finger. "Look at me," he commanded gently. She met his eyes – so kind, she could taste the kindness there.

Carlisle cocked his head to the side, curious, confounded. "What are you afraid of?"

His lips were small and soft. She blinked, remembering her fear.

"I'm afraid of failing," she admitted shamefully, but her eyes did not draw away from his. They were stuck now. The honey in his gaze was like glue.

His finger drifted away from her jaw, and his hand laid upon her shaking knee in concern. "I once feared the same. Sometimes I still do," he whispered, "but nothing good comes from running away. Good things _can _come from failure."

As much as he tried to be positive, Esme felt that her heart was already well past its breaking point.

"I don't know if I can take any more pain, Carlisle," she whispered in agony, her head shaking idly back and forth. Somehow he must have known she wanted someplace to rest her head.

Almost cautiously, he leaned forward to accommodate her forehead with one sturdy shoulder. One shoulder she had moments ago seen nude in the glow of dim red firelight.

Her eyes prickled with guilt, but her cheek burrowed further into his neck, too grateful for the closeness to refuse any of it.

"Esme, I would_ never _cause you pain if I could help it. You must know that," he whispered fervently, mapping a utopian landscape with his hands across her slender back.

"I know..." she mumbled into his shoulder.

"You refuse me out of fear," he said sadly, his voice so small it stung her ear.

She instantly pulled back to stare at his face. "I don't refuse _you._"

"You refuse what I am offering you," he said, his forehead creasing, a pout on his lips.

"I don't mean to," she stammered, flustered by the image of his despondence. "I just…I—"

"Please, Esme." He took her shoulder into his hand and stared deeply into her eyes. "I want to help you."

He was asking so little of her. He asked only for her to let him help her_. _She could see that he almost _needed _it.

Esme bit her lip, embarrassed to admit the truth for why she was so reluctant. But Carlisle himself had been brave enough to show her many truths, none of which had done good deeds for his pride. She could spare at least one for him.

"I don't want _you_ to see me fail," she whispered, her eyes drawn down to her lap.

His response was gruff, raw and bare. "You have seen _me_ fail," he said.

She looked up to meet his steely eyes.

"How can you still believe in me?" she asked, no longer bothering to hide her need.

Still staring hard, his hand on her shoulder slowly traveled to cradle the back of her neck. Her hair fluttered as his fingers navigated through the strands, her skin prickling like cool fire where he touched her bare skin. Her head was entirely at his mercy, she was literally in his hand. The position was blatantly fair for him to tilt her neck back and support her with blissful ease as he kissed her…

"Because I can see that you want this, Esme."

Want…_this? _Her mind was a flurry. What was _this? _What was he referring to?

Her throat offered a timid little noise of confusion.

"You _want _to believe in yourself," he whispered, the kindness in his gaze making her heart tingle. "And I do believe in you, Esme. I always have, and I always will."

Surprising them both, she laughed – out of nerves, out of pure relief, out of despicable joy. Out of sheer giddiness, from the way he was repeating her name. Nearly every time he addressed her, he used it. And it sounded softer and softer every time he said it.

He looked torn between uncertain happiness and plain confusion.

"Is this humorous?" he asked. The rapt kindness in his eyes fluttered out of focus for a moment.

Relieved, she shook her head and reached up to touch his hand on her neck. "I just needed to hear you say that."

He laughed a bit himself, sobered by the relief in her smile. His eyes slipped along the slopes of her face, curious, but happily intense.

"So you'll try again?"

She bit her lip, just to make him worry a little. Just to see the way his eyes sparkled with concern. She would ease his worry soon enough.

"Esme," he prompted, neither fond nor factual. Just her name.

"Yes... I will try." She held his hand more firmly. "When should we do it?" she asked, smiling lightly.

He swallowed hard, but she could see the tones of a more pronounced smile being born on his lips. "Soon," he replied. "Very...soon."

"Do you think I'm ready?"

Taking a deep breath, he reversed her question. "Do _you_ think you're ready?"

Her eyes briefly lowered to their hands, then back to his beautiful face. "Yes."

He smiled without restraint then, and her heart took flight.

"Then we'll begin again tomorrow."

* * *

_**A/N: **__Here we see Esme is slowly readjusting to accept her ongoing struggle with blood-lust. Naturally, I'd imagined that after the traumatic experience of killing a human, she would be reluctant to be exposed to any human's blood again, especially around Carlisle. Esme struggles with confidence, but a major part of her story which we will be seeing soon deals with how she becomes stronger and more secure as both a vampire and as Carlisle's equal. It's a slow journey, but she's going to surprise herself with her newfound strength in the chapters to come._

_Thank you very much for reading, and I hope you will let me know what you think of the chapter. :) _


	39. The Blizzard Between Us

**Chapter 39:**

**The Blizzard Between Us**

* * *

One can never rush the path to rebuilding self-acceptance. Esme had tried this trick many times in her life, but quickly she learned it could not be done. As much as she had always wished to deny it, the hardest person to fool was herself.

While the first tests to her blood resistance had once been something to dread, Esme now felt almost eager to begin anew. She had encountered a tender spot in her heart that longed to seek accomplishment of some kind, most favorably in Carlisle's eyes. Her motivation had been restored with the hopeful coming of dawn, but carrying out the process again was still regretfully daunting at its long-awaited introduction.

Edward had been there with the doctor in his study when they had planned to begin testing.

"I'm here for emotional support," he said with a smirk, and Esme was terribly glad to have him by her side when she first began.

"Remember, you've done this before, and you did very well," Carlisle reminded her as she breathed her last breaths. "I have not changed anything since the last time we did this. We'll start with just one drop of blood and continue from there as you feel comfortable."

She nodded slowly, committing to her control.

Edward held her hand through it all, and it was surprisingly easy to perform well with his encouragement. Knowing he would be alerted to her discomfort the moment she felt it was reassuring. There was no precedent to be untruthful with Edward around. Likewise, the boy's presence had relieved much of the intimacy she had initially come to associate with the testing itself. In the earlier days when it had just been she and Carlisle alone in his study, it had been far more difficult to concentrate. With all three of them working through it together, it was more a joint effort, more a harmony of strength which Esme found to be a most beautiful thing.

The dizzy spells she suffered from the scent became a familiar nuisance of a side-effect and nothing more. She found that she could easily ward them off with a shake of her head and a firm stare on her target. She was looking at blood, but not desiring it. It was just a drop of red liquid that happened to smell like heaven and happened to be perched on the perfect tip of Doctor Cullen's perfect finger...

As Esme had imagined would soon happen, Edward decided she was doing fine on her own.

Carlisle had seemed oddly gleeful when Edward had opted to skip the next few blood tests in favor of independent hunting trips and study sessions in the cellar.

"I think your confidence has improved enough that you will do just as well without him," the blond doctor concurred.

Esme silently agreed.

So she continued the testing with only Carlisle for company.

The nights might often find them seated across from each other in his study with one sweet droplet of blood being held carefully between them. That single droplet slowly multiplied with time and practice into two droplets, then three, then four, and soon every one of the doctor's fingers was anointed with a garnet sparkle. The temptation grew, yet Esme obediently resisted.

She was growing. She was making progress. She was impressing him.

And he was impressing her, every time they performed this tempting little ritual in the privacy of his study. He could never know that the reasons behind her enthusiasm for participating had so little to do with her will to be a more civilized vampire. Because the tests themselves were often unpleasant, but being his submissive and cooperative test victim was not; having him watch over her so carefully as he trained her was not. And watching him touch things for hours at a time was not. Not unpleasant...not in the slightest.

Esme recalled the first time they had performed this test. Looking back now, it seemed so long ago. She had been just as thrilled by the precise, surgically sound motions of his fingers then as she was now.

First it had been his pacing, then it was his voice, now it was his hands. Really it was all these things, equally, that held her fascination. But lately Esme had developed an indecent obsession with the way Carlisle held things, the way his fingers touched things. She was not even imagining that he was touching_ her_ (although it would be a lie to say she had not still saved those daydreams for her times alone). She simply watched without the aid of her imagination, and what she saw before her eyes was a thrilling show.

With the slow twist of a cap, his thumb and index finger joined together in mutual force, gently twisting... Sometimes all five of his fingers would collectively grasp the bottle, and it hardly looked like they were touching it at all. There was no force behind his touch when his fingers curled around the glass, no pressure as he held things, when he held them with such unprecedented care.

So practiced was Esme by now, there was no temptation to touch the blood upon his finger as he tested her. But she still touched him. She still touched his finger.

Because when she got blood on her finger, he had to clean it off for her.

She still let him scrub every one of her fingers dry after the test was over. She still did not ask him why _he _insisted on doing it for her. She still did not know why she enjoyed so much.

Then again, she would not call it mere _enjoyment. _She was pleased by his attention, but more than that, she was spellbound by the way he touched her.

He turned her hand over in his and swiped the cotton swab, damp with that mysterious oil, over the insides of her fingers. It tickled there. There were rough spots sometimes where his hand would bring the pressure to one finger. Sometimes it startled her. But it was only because he was so gentle the rest of the time.

Once she had looked up at his face while he was doing it. There was a quiet intensity about his expression as he washed her hand – thoroughness, scrutinization, concentration – but each in soft amounts. He watched his ministrations carefully, almost critically. His breath was steady. He would blink every so often. Then that peaceful hint of a smile would tweak the edge of his lips, the dimple in his cheek would wink for a second, like a mirage...and she thought he would smile. But then she realized he had no real reason to smile.

He was just cleaning the blood off her fingers. He was just _touching_ her.

Even outside the context of those God-forsaken blood tests, she couldn't ignore his hands.

They were so handsome, just like the rest of him. Masculine, squared, yet somehow soft. The skin white and pure and velvety, like jasmine petals. Every shallow crease in his knuckles was perfection. Every fingernail was like a single scale of delicate glass fitted to the tips of his flawless fingers. Every swift line inside his palm inspired her to hold her paintbrush steadier.

And it was not only the mere aesthetics of those hands that made her ache for them. It was the things they did: constantly gesturing and constructing, helping and healing, caring and nurturing, saving and supporting. Carlisle had performed exhausting surgeries with those hands, fashioned bouquets of paper flowers, painted mysterious blue landscapes, carried her broken body to his home, and prayed every night...all with those hands.

As he pulled back the curtains, she watched his hand as it grasped the fabric. She could gauge easily, the subtle pressure each one of his frost-colored fingers exerted on the gathered material, and it weakened her stomach.

She was smitten with the way he held those curtains.

He would sit down in what little sunlight the day had to offer. No matter how weak the sun might have been when he opened the window, it always grew stronger for him. Perhaps he made the sun blush as well.

His fingers gingerly leafed through the brittle pages of a century old journal, and her eyes flowed with the motions. His hand would support the aged spine of the book, holding it steadily upright though it longed to be recumbent in his lap.

She was smitten with the way he held that book.

No matter what he was doing, his hands were distracting her.

As the weather grew more frigid, he began to wear more layers. A vest over his shirt, a sweater over his vest, an overcoat over his sweater, and the ubiquitous scarf around his neck. He also began to wear gloves on his hands.

They were nothing special. Just smooth, black leather gloves to maintain the consistency of his charade. They shouldn't have made her breathing accelerate, but they did. Something about him wearing them was horribly arousing.

Why should he want to hide such a beautiful pair of hands? Why would he do that to her?

It was almost like he was taunting her on purpose.

For the sake of her good pride, Esme's thoughts had been relatively clean since the accident. If the blood still inside of her did any good, it was that it temporarily calmed the lust she had once been victim to. But it seemed these thoughts of a shameful nature were catching up with her. It was that ridiculous pair of gloves and the thoughts they stirred in her that finally brought about Edward's confrontation.

He asked her, quite bluntly, what in _Satan's cursed name was wrong _with her, to which she responded just as bluntly, _she had no idea._

Profuse apologies plowed forth from her usually well-sealed lips, as every defense she could think of came out in a race of rushed run-on sentences. She was fortunate that Edward was a mind reader, for her speech, as well as many of her thoughts at the moment he approached her were incoherent.

He laughed forgivingly at her silliness, of course. And she laughed along with him in her mind. Because it really was quite ridiculous. This whole situation between her and Carlisle was, always had been, and most probably always would be, ridiculous.

Esme tried to be on her best behavior while Edward was around. God knows, she tried. Then the feelings began to grow stronger as they once had before.

She was a fool for believing she could keep them at bay for very long.

They were now ripening like fruit, fizzling like vinegar and baking soda, screeching like unfed felines in the pit of her stomach. In her helpless curse of desperation, she tumbled into her bed and slipped beneath the covers and let the dreams run wild once again.

Uncommon it was not for Edward to blast through the nearest window, breaking free to run into the forest, cooling himself from the flagrant fire of her thoughts, and leaving her poor innocent doctor baffled by the door.

Her poor, innocent, _beautiful _doctor.

If only he _could _be _hers. _

She was not bashful when imagining it – being his wife – dangerous as it was for her to envision such things.

If she were his wife, she would have been able to welcome him home with a kiss rather than just holding his bag while he hung up his coat. She would have slid that coat from his shoulders herself, and slipped that scarf from around his neck. His loving arms would swallow her whole, appreciate her endlessly for all the warmth she offered him, day and night alike.

She would watch him throughout his daily routine in much the same way she did now, with the same restless eyes, the same thudding desire.

Something about that – the warm solidity of his granite body covered by the thin, yet obtrusive barrier of soft fabric – would be somehow both exhilarating and comforting to her. It would be sheer torture to watch him, moving gracefully beneath it throughout the evening, and not being able to touch him so explicitly would be agonizing. Having to constantly sate her restless hands with a brief caress across his forearm, a light hand on his back, a gentle nudge of her head against his shoulder – it would quickly grow unsatisfactory.

Those tiny, insignificant touches she now pined for would become wholly dissatisfying if she were married to him. Because as his wife, she knew there would be a time to retreat at the end of the day, a time when she would be free to touch him in any way she wished, behind the closed doors of this very bedroom, perhaps.

She would free him from the rest of those intrusive layers and touch him with no fabric between or over or around. She would coax him to lie down in that bed, and she would cover his body with those silky blue quilts, and she would sit on the edge of the mattress beside him and stroke the waves of his blond locks with her fingers while she asked him about his day.

If it so happened that he had lost a patient or two in the hospital that morning, she would soothe him with sweet kisses across his sullen face. If he had been tortured by his thirst all afternoon she would offer to take him into the forest for blood. If he had simply missed her while he was away all day long, she would whisper into his ear that she had missed him just as deeply, and did he want her to show him just how much?

If the third scenario happened to be true, she would undo the buttons and laces of whatever she was wearing that night, and tuck herself beneath the quilts beside him. She imagined he would be tirelessly tender with her as he loved her, and she would reciprocate each and every touch with amplified passion.

But whenever she tried to walk herself through it, she felt an uncontrollable flush grow around her neck.

Esme stirred beneath the sheets, knowing what she was imagining was wrong – and somehow knowing that had forced her heart to block her mind, to bleach out the details she fruitlessly tried to form. Her fantasy would self-destruct when she went too far. It happened the same way every time, and she was almost glad for it. But this intensity was beginning to worry her. She didn't want to return to the days when all her thoughts had been wanton distractions, fabricated liaisons with her childhood doctor underneath willow trees, and similarly embarrassing daydreams.

Carlisle was too kind a man to be the subject of such insulting nonsense, unwitting or otherwise.

Though it was true that he would have no suspicions, so long as Edward kept his lips sealed. Esme couldn't imagine the boy would say anything, but she still did not know the extent of what he and Carlisle shared while she wasn't around. It seemed when they were divided in pairs, it was an inevitability that the missing of the three was discussed in his absence. She spoke with Edward about Carlisle, but she spoke with Carlisle about Edward just as often. Who was to say that they did not speak about her?

The thought made her very uncomfortable, even more so now that she recognized its veritability.

"Are you accusing me of gossip, Esme?" Edward's quiet tease broke Esme out of a long and heedless reverie. She hadn't seen him come in, but he had a habit of turning up random places, mostly when he knew he wouldn't have had her spoken consent.

"Shh!" she hissed as she shot up from her lazy pose in the bay window.

"No secrets here." He jokingly crossed his heart with a grin.

She pushed his shoulder hard on her way out the library door.

"You're late for your test," he reminded with a sneaky laugh.

So she hurried along, feeling like a schoolgirl who was sure to be struck by the ruler of an angry instructor. But when she reached the door to the study, she remembered that she had been blessed with an instructor who would never dream of striking her.

He turned from the window where he'd just closed the heavy curtains, vial already in hand.

"Were you waiting for me?" she asked abruptly.

"Waiting?" The smile melted from his face as a look of confusion and hurt colored his features. "Esme, I'm not restricting you to a fixed schedule by any means. You may arrive whenever you wish."

"Oh, it's just that Edward seemed to—Never mind."

Carlisle's eyes drifted to the ceiling for a moment with a hassled expression of disfavor.

"So, how are we testing today?" she asked energetically as she crossed the desk to sit in her chair.

Carlisle looked at her strangely for a moment, then his eyes went cold, his face blank. He stared emotionlessly down at the desk before he carefully placed the vial back into the drawer and closed it up. She drew her brows together in confusion, awaiting his explanation.

"We're done testing, Esme," his voice was quiet, unobtrusive. She could hardly believe what she was hearing. "You've proven you can handle the volume of anything I can offer. We really needn't continue with this practice any longer."

"Oh..." Her voice was weak as she desperately hoped her disappointment hadn't shown. The news should have been pleasing...so why did _he _look so saddened by it, too?

"You seem displeased."

Of course he would notice.

She fidgeted in her seat. "Well, I...was just enjoying the feelings of accomplishment. I don't really have anything else to feel proud of besides making some kind of progress."

He looked enthused by this. "Well, I suppose we don't need to stop _entirely_."

"What do you mean?"

"We can go in a different direction," he said. "If you feel comfortable with the idea, I could bring you blood in slightly sweeter samples—"

"You mean blood can be sweeter than that?"

A look of thirst pressed around his beautiful face. Esme felt her throat tighten in response to the strange expression as Carlisle stared at her, his eyes swimming with charred flecks of ash.

"Yes. I've been...keeping things relatively simple for you."

She must have looked horrified.

He looked a little panicked as he tried to soothe her. "I didn't want to frighten you, Esme. The blood I've been giving you has been sitting in a hospital cellar for weeks before I bring it home with me. To have exposed you to anything more potent would have overwhelmed you."

"I understand." And she did. But the thought that there existed sweeter, more potent blood out there **– **possibly even more euphoric than the blood of the child she had killed in the forest **– **disturbed her deeply.

"But I do believe you're ready to handle something a bit stronger now."

She looked up, putting on a positive face for both their benefit and smiled softly. "Alright."

It had been worth it to see Carlisle looking so proud.

From then on, he'd decided to carry on testing every day of the week. He never forced her when she wasn't feeling up to it, but he was always encouraging her subtly, with the gentle suggestion in his eyes. He had not been lying about the sweetness of others' blood. Esme could now see quite clearly why he had taken the care to protect her from such a bouquet in her days of just starting out.

Cautiously, he placed a thick droplet on the pad of his finger, holding it out as if it weighed considerably more than it looked. He lifted his gaze and asked her to breathe, and she obeyed, foolishly unprepared for the onslaught of seductive sweetness.

"You're fine, Esme. You're fine..." he chanted softly as she panicked at the first whiff. "Remember, it's the same as the others, only the scent is stronger."

"How do I k—How do I keep—" She struggled with speech at first, wincing at the mild regression in her control. But Carlisle placed a firm hand on her shoulder and held her steady.

"Shh, you're doing well. It's normal to be a bit flustered."

She breathed out a long, controlled breath and carefully inhaled some more of the sweetness. The dizziness was slightly stronger and more impairing, but it was Carlisle's hand that kept her tied to the earth.

The pressure of his eyes on her made her feel terribly warm. Every so often she would steal a glimpse of his face, slightly disturbed by how close he was. Every fleck in his eyes was so magnificently noticeable. Esme shuddered and reached for his hand on her shoulder.

His eyes widened at the force of her hold, but he remained just as calm, just as watchful as ever. His unaffectedness was reassuring. This was nothing of an ordeal, this was just a simple test...and she was going to pass.

"Good," he whispered. "Very good."

Esme closed her eyes and took another, slightly deeper breath. She wavered a bit on her feet, but this time she felt distinctly that it had be she who had set herself upright, and not Carlisle.

Breathlessly, she met his eyes, quickly losing all interest in the ruby drop between them. He smiled back at her, tentative but gloriously genuine, and she felt some of the lightheadedness return. This time she knew it came from a different kind of sweetness.

The temptation was there – there was no denying it – but it lingered somewhere along the base of her throat, fluttering delightfully as the brief thought of kissing the man across from her seized her mind. She would surely have to raise herself up on her tiptoes to reach his mouth. She would likely have to reach up with her hand and tuck his neck forward to match their lips. But despite these tiny challenges, it would have been remarkably easy...

A flash of irrefutable darkness covered his golden gaze as Carlisle suddenly tore his bloodied hand away and thrust one finger into the dish of vinegar.

"Beautiful, Esme... Beautifully done. Your control is...beautiful."

The word made her shiver as he said it, and he carelessly repeated it, three times to be exact, completely oblivious to the danger in such a generous adjective.

The scent of blood did strange things to her.

Apparently she was not alone with this problem.

That was the first time she had seen Carlisle so flustered around blood. From that point forward he was more careful to keep a better distance from her. His reasoning was unclear, but she was glad for it in a way. At least now her foolish fantasies to shock him with an unexpected kiss were disregarded.

Esme's confidence built slowly the more time she spent working to conquer her blood-lust with Carlisle by her side. With his strength and sureness, it seemed impossible not to succeed. His reassurance was contagious, and soon she felt her faith in herself patiently blooming by his nurturing care.

Following a rather daunting test in which Esme had again proven herself successful, Carlisle had smiled with an enthusiasm she had feared would never be resurrected. That smile was the one she remembered falling in love with. That was the smile she remembered from her dreams. The one she had seen shining under the watery golden lights of Ohio sunrises and featured in countless moonlit fantasies of a sixteen-year-old romantic. The pearl-white teeth, the tempting dimples, the bright charm dancing in his eyes... He was smiling _that way_ again.

"You should be immensely proud of yourself, Esme," he informed her at the completion of the test. He snapped the vial closed and placed it in his desk drawer, folding his hands together over his knee.

Esme beamed, thankful that the heat she felt on her face could not be seen. She _was _immensely proud of herself. And it was not a bad feeling it all. It was an addictive feeling, and it made her want to succeed even more.

Her initial fears of failing never seemed so foolish as they did now.

Not when he was sitting here, smiling at her like this, telling her how proud she should be.

This made it all worth the effort.

"You know what this means, don't you?" he posed softly, still grinning a shy, beautiful grin. "You'll be ready to enter more populated areas by the end of the season, I'd imagine."

A quiet panic rose within her. He seemed too happy, too expectant. She may have been succeeding in simple tests in their home, but frolicking about the town was still an incredibly daunting proposition.

"Do you really think that...so quickly...?"

"Do not doubt yourself, Esme. You may take as much time as you need to adjust your control. I'll be with you every step of the way. You have nothing to worry about."

Her eyes averted from his intense gaze to glance blissfully out the window. Through the slim view between the parted curtains she could make out the faintest scene of fluttering white sparkles behind the glass.

So easily distracted by the smallest things, Esme quickly shot up from her chair to rush to the window, tearing the curtains back to reveal the spectacular first snow of the season.

"It's snowing," she stated in wonder, reduced to nothing more than a child in the grandeur of her new senses. Just like the rain, snow was a most incredible trick of nature to witness with her flawless eyes.

"It's about time," Carlisle sighed with a chuckle. "I was wondering when that cold front was going to catch up with us."

"Is it always this beautiful?" She asked her usual rhetorical, artistically vague sort of question, knowing Carlisle could never resist humoring her with an answer.

"No," he said, surprising her with his forthrightness. She turned to face him, eyebrows raised expectantly. His voice became husky. "I've never seen it looking this beautiful before."

He looked disgracefully sincere.

After a pause he added, "When you've waited long enough for something, the eyes cannot help but to see it as the most beautiful vision."

_That_ was unexpected.

"That's...That's very true." Esme nodded slowly, breathless half-laughter fleeing her trembling lips as she turned to face the window again.

All was painfully still behind her, a quilt of intense silence hanging over them as she stared out at the whiteness, able to concentrate on nothing but Carlisle's apparent lack of breath.

Throbbing with curiosity, she helplessly turned back to face him.

For a flashing instant, he looked so luxuriously _sad. _His head tilted to the side in the most tragic way, his eyes glittering with unshed tears, his throat clenching gently as if the right words would never be possible.

But as quickly as she had blinked, that expression had been wiped away. In the very next instant, Carlisle was smiling softly at her in much the same way he always had. His eyes were dry and his demeanor was perfectly warm and content.

She must have been going mad.

All of this blood testing was not healthy for her sanity.

Unable to think of any proper way to react, she chuckled nervously. "You can be disarmingly poetic sometimes, Carlisle."

He laughed softly in relief. "I don't mean to be." He brought an insecure hand to his stomach and pressed lightly, the innocent gesture causing a strange stirring in her abdomen.

"There's nothing wrong with that," she admitted in a low voice, shyly averting her eyes to the sanctuary of the window yet again.

_No, there was absolutely nothing wrong with being poetic, _she thought as her gaze swirled along with the falling snow.

As she leaned forward with her hands pressed against the glass, she felt some of the warmth flee her body, cooling her from the inside out. She found herself fervently wishing to be outside in the midst of this lacy white miracle, and not a moment later, Edward appeared by the door, jacket already around his shoulders, ready to grasp her hand and pull her outside with him.

"Let's get out of here for a while," he suggested, more enthusiastic than he'd been all week.

Passing up the chance to spend time with Edward when he was in such a good mood would have been idiotic at best. But there was a little nagging voice in Esme's mind that begged her to invite Carlisle along with them as well.

Edward must have heard this voice too, but he seemed surprisingly unaware. Or at least he had no objections.

Before she could change her mind, Esme turned to the doctor and rushed through the words as if they were merely a hasty afterthought. "Won't you come along with us?"

She could tell instantly from his weak smile that he was going to decline.

"I would love to, but I really should be getting ready for the hospital," he responded regretfully.

Pretending not to be affected despite the unpleasant pierce to her heart, Esme whipped around, ready to follow Edward out the door when she felt Carlisle's hand grab her shoulder to stop her.

"Hold on just now," he chuckled from behind her, and before she could turn to see what he was up to, her shoulders were soon covered with the warm weight of a winter coat. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

She laughed gratefully as she slipped her arms into the sleeves and impatiently did the first three buttons. Somehow she knew she wouldn't be going very far the second time she tried to make a run for it either.

As Esme predicted, Carlisle tugged on her arm one more time, gently turning her around to face him. In his hands was the same thick red scarf she had placed around his neck months ago when he'd gone to see Annaliese. Esme's chest tightened at the memory, but as Carlisle lifted the scarf to lay it neatly around her neck, she had forgotten all but the warmth in his eyes and the tender smile on his face.

"Now you may go outside."

"Thank you."

Her lips quirked into a breathless smile before she dashed out the door to follow a patiently waiting Edward. Together they spent the afternoon under the falling snow until they were soaked to the skin. Occasionally, Esme would tuck her chin beneath the scarf around her neck, only to be assaulted by the gut-wrenchingly familiar scents of sweet incense and citrus fruit.

She was giddy every time she caught herself, thinking back to the way he had smiled at her, the way he had returned the gesture of care she had given him. He hadn't forgotten it.

Her eyes occasionally flicked back to the house, unrepentant that she had seen him passing the windows of his study several times. In her defense, she was liable to look anywhere – she just happened to see him wherever she looked.

Then she looked one final time – and she swore it would be the last – only to find him staring out his window, eyes heavy with a mysterious, sorrowful longing as his gaze faithfully followed her everywhere she went.

******-}0{-**

Once it started snowing, it really never stopped. Winter had finally made its debut, later than most expected, but not without compensation. The clouds did quite a number on Wisconsin that year, most particularly, it seemed, in their own backyard. The lake had frozen over long before the blizzard hit, with gale force winds and snow so thick it stuck like frothy glue to the grass and trees.

Carlisle maintained the hours of his shift religiously despite the ghastly weather, and Esme could not help but become insanely jealous of the hospital he was cursed to be with more than her. She had long since crossed the line between infatuation and obsession.

If she could have her doctor for but a few hours each day, that was enough to fuel her heart with an adequate dosage of happiness. Even with a brutal blizzard raging around them, his eyes still blazed like a warm Bermuda sunrise. Even in the most frigid nights of winter, the tiny pink smile that teased his lips was enough to kindle the furnace in her heart. He was still, despite being dreadfully busy, beside her every spare second when they were home together. Yes, things were looking very bright.

But on that unsuspecting Friday morning, he left the house, bidding her goodbye as he always had. As if it were just the same sort of day, and he would return that evening with that impossible smile and an utterly humble account of how many lives he had managed to save.

Esme retreated to her library, and she watched the snow pile up outside the window until it had blocked half the glass with a silvery-white wall. Before the end of the night, their house was but a grand old ship sinking in a sea of white sparkles, and the giddy little snowflakes still refused to end their obnoxious dance. Esme found it impossible to believe that she had once been excited to see the snow. Now it was nothing but a nuisance.

It was fortunate that vampires had no substantial need for electricity or telephone. But Esme could think of a few reasons why having access to a working telephone would have been comforting at such a time, all of which involved hearing one specific voice.

Somewhere in the nearby town, Doctor Cullen was one of the few capable physicians available to help with the recently profuse amount of weather related injuries. Although he could have easily returned home on his own two feet in spite of the dangerous conditions, he would not have risked leaving his patients behind even if he had the choice.

To Esme, the absence of the doctor was one hundred times as stifling as his presence had been.

The days dragged by when he was sorely missed in their home. Despite the glaring awareness Edward had of her devastation, Esme had fruitlessly kept up a false charade of nonchalance regarding Carlisle's absence.

Over the course of the first two days, Edward had composed four new songs and played each at least a fifty times or more. Somehow, despite her flawless memory, Esme had lost count.

There was one he played most often – a waltz of some sort. It was giddy and upbeat, a hilarious opponent to her forlorn feelings. It made her even sadder to hear such happy music.

If Edward was not affected by his father's absence, this was not surprising to her. Not only was he independent, but he probably saw it as a much needed break from the doctor's attentions. Sometimes Carlisle would hover with Edward. Ironic it was, being that the boy had not a month ago desired _more _time with his father. However, without Carlisle's finely flowering concentration, Edward had free reign of the house and its spoils. He played concert after concert in his music room, enjoying the novelty of having one less brooding brain to bother his peace.

It was evident that Edward's piano was enjoying the generous company of her master's skilled hands as well. Each song the boy played sounded fuller and clearer when Esme passed by the music room. He kept the doors open when Carlisle was gone. She wondered if he had kept them closed before to prevent entry or to prevent unfavorable thoughts.

Surely _her _thoughts had been the unfavorable ones.

It would not have mattered whose thoughts were bothersome or whose were not. This piano was Edward's mask from the mind. His music charged the hollow halls with a grandeur of classic proportions, and yet she was mute to the crystalline clashing, just as he was mute to her mindful musings.

Esme's ears were immune to any sounds except for the memory of Carlisle's precious laughter. She had not forgotten the sound of his voice, but there was something so dissatisfying about repeating the same sentences he had uttered to her before, just in her mind, which could never do his air-on-velvet tone justice. She could not _feel _his voice when she played it like a worn recording in her head. It was a miserable substitute for the real thing, but even so, it still managed to spark a tiny thrill of that arousing energy in her chest.

She missed being startled by him when he entered the room; she missed the anticipatory swell of his scent until he finally reached her side. It seemed pointless to roam the rooms when the chance of catching his unmistakable blondness in her peripheral was nonexistent. It was so strange not having that unexpected chill of sharp awareness in his presence, like frost creeping up her spine, like wine on the tip of her tongue. She could not feel these things without him around, and it unsettled her to be so very _settled_ all of the time.

She would lie in a mournful little heap on the carpet in her bedroom and gaze up through the gigantic windows at a sky bleached with a blanket of depressing stratus clouds. The snow came down in delicate bundles – each one looked ironically powerless on its own – but when they accumulated over time, they could be deadly. She watched them tumble down from the clouds, upside down and from every angle. It looked like they were heading straight for her – fluffy stars falling from the heavens, laughing gaily with a sensitive crash against the rooftop. They just wouldn't stop.

There was something about all of this snow that made her miss him even more deeply.

It hadn't started out so terribly – just a hollow pang in the pit of her chest, a wish that he would return home sooner rather than later. But by the fifth day, Esme was strung with anxiety.

She had taken the liberty of haunting the halls in place of the spirits that were only rumored to have inhabited them. Her feet traced every path she had seen the doctor take in all her days with him, always ending up at the entrance to his haven.

She thought several times about breaking into Carlisle's study, just so that she could have some tangible reminder of his presence. She could have raided his bookshelves, and rummaged through his desk drawers, and read his mail, and found out where he hid his journal, and seen which page he had bookmarked in his Bible. But this would mean her taking advantage of his absence to invade his privacy, and would most certainly certify her obsession as unhealthy. For a while she was able to ward off the urge to take refuge in that room, but she doubted it would be very long before she lost what little sanity she had left.

Edward offered to take her hunting as a polite way to remind her that her thoughts were becoming bothersome, but she usually responded with the same melancholy refusal. She was far thirstier for the doctor's sweet scent than she was for blood.

She hated looking out at this terrible snow all alone, in the bay window of her bedroom with the lights all gone, never truly knowing if they would be safe, together again. The temperature of her body seemed to drop impossibly when she sat beside the frosted window panes, to the point where she swore she was able to elicit an empty shiver from her heart.

There was no more bitter an ache than that of a lonely heart, but when the heart knew it would remain that way, even after its beloved had returned, the pain was a thousand times worse. As she imagined his arms around her, here in the window, she did not bother to spare herself that pain. She knew it would come the more she thought of him – she was stirring the reactants meticulously, building herself up to a breaking point that would be her undoing. Eventually the phantom tears would spill over the sensitive beds of her eyes, clinging to her lashes and glossing her cheeks as she let her head rest against the sturdy chest that was not there.

She wanted him to open his arms for her and fold her against him, incarcerate her within the warm confines of his sweet, deep, comforting scent. If she turned her head even the slightest bit, she would feel the soft tide of his breath against her brow, the firmness of his cheek against her hair. The bare backs of her arms would brush the fabric of his clothing as she moved back, closer in his lap. His hands would shelter hers from the bitter cold, pressing them against her belly as he held her, watching the silent ballet of tiny snowflakes over her shoulder. She would sigh, and fall back just a bit more...but as she tried to nestle deeper into his embrace, her back would sink into nothing – cold, empty, invisible nothing – the cruelest reminder that he was _not _there.

She would succumb to the pain then, winding her thin arms about her body in a pathetic embrace that was less than a shadow of his. She had never known a pain of this intensity before – and for an organ like the heart to ache so desperately, it was unheard of. Because the heart should not have been able to feel this. _Her _heart, specifically, should not have been able to feel this. This biting, gnawing, taunting, burning pang that tried to punch its way out through her ribcage.

It was a delicate, violent, utterly unpredictable and poisonous pain, twisting through the vacant cradle of her womb. She could not even put a name to it, nor could she pinpoint the exact cause. She only supposed that _he_ had the cure, but the ways in which he would go about healing this indecent kind of pain were too damaging to even acknowledge. She _refused_ to go down that path again...

It would never happen.

Oh, how she longed for him, how she just wanted him near. Just to know that, if she wanted, she could reach out her hand and it would collide with his solid body.

Even if she knew that no harm could possibly come to him, she still found herself curled up on her lavish mattress in the lost hours of the night, _worried sick _about him.

On the sixth day, Edward insisted that they feed. Hunting in the midst of a snowstorm was a fair challenge, requiring a daunting distance to be traveled before the scent of any animal's blood was remotely appealing. Rodents in hibernation were easy enough to find nearby, but their blood was incredibly dull due to lack of nourishment. Even worse was the difficulty of having to trudge through nearly three feet of snow while running. Whenever possible, they stayed above the ground, jumping from treetop to treetop. It was an awkward way to travel, but it was faster than clearing a path through the snow. Winter feeding was a complicated situation, though it must have been far easier for her than what she imagined Carlisle had been forced to go through being trapped in a populated area with humans watching his every move.

Having a belly full of blood only served to worsen her spirits, much to Edward's disappointment. The normally satisfied contentment that would have taken over her mind and body after drinking was instead a nasty half-breed of guilt and sympathy. She couldn't help thinking of _him _while she drained the blood from those animals, thinking of how terrible it would be for him to not even _have _the option for sating his thirst. It made her wish to take him by the hand, as he had done so many times for her before, slay as much of the forest as she could for him, and push him to his knees before the kill, take his head between her hands and guide his exquisite mouth to the artery she had been trained to find in every neck. She knew the doctor was capable of going months without blood, but to be in the presence of open wounds when he had already been overdue thanks to the dismal weather... It made her shudder just thinking of it.

To any other vampire, such noble actions would one day ensure their downfall. But not Carlisle. Esme was convinced by now that he would never give up on his job, no matter how difficult things became for him. No matter how many obstacles lay in the way of these people who needed him, who depended on him, he would never leave them for his own convenience. Never.

It was appropriate, if not saddening to her, that he remain this way. She could not imagine Carlisle without this career – being a doctor was second-nature to the man. He was born for the profession as a prince is born into royal lineage. But like every job, it came with its perks and its setbacks, the latter of which Esme was feeling quite strongly these days.

She had missed him even when they were parted for several hours at a time. She had missed him even when he was in a different room, with only a wall to separate them. Now he was miles away, nowhere within reach, nowhere within sight. Even the simplest means of communication was barred between them.

Esme wondered if it were some sort of test. If she could just make it through these few days without Carlisle, she could be sure that her heart had the strength to survive without him. Perhaps she could prove to herself, once and for all, that his attention and presence and affection were _not _basic needs as she had somehow fooled herself into believing they were.

The notion made her laugh bitterly as she tumbled into her bed with her hands over her head and a lovesick wince on her lips.

Vainly, foolishly, selfishly, Esme wondered if Carlisle was missing her just as desperately.

* * *

_**A/N: **__To see just how desperately Carlisle truly does miss Esme, you can read "Chapter 16: The Heart Grows Fonder" in __**Behind Stained Glass.**_


	40. Piece by Piece

**Chapter 40:**

**Piece by Piece**

* * *

If she had only known how to use a suture kit, Esme would have raided the doctor's medical stash and stitched her broken heart up long ago.

It was not even the doctor himself who was breaking her heart apart by his absence. It was all of this _snow_ – these merciless little white monsters called snowflakes whose secret agenda was to smother everything in their icy clutches.

By the command of many prayers, the snowfall had let up at long last. But even after the clouds had given up, the ground was piled high enough to last for the rest of the month with no help at all from the sky.

It was ironic that the world looked so beautiful this way, in its veil of glittering white, the landscape smooth and silent for miles around. It was so peaceful out there in the world of endless white, but inside Esme's heart was lost in despair.

Days seven and eight were utter torture. Any time she passed a window, she was sure to curse the snow that covered it. White was a dismal color she had tried to eliminate entirely from her wardrobe. Whenever possible, she closed the curtains over any window that dared to let the frosty light inside. She would rather it be dark than constantly be reminded of the icy barricade that kept him from her.

She began to worry that Carlisle would not be returning until the end of the season. What if a second blizzard were to come and double the snowfall outside their home? He might never see them again until March, or even later.

"That's ridiculous, Esme," Edward said in response to her thoughts, his voice slightly muffled from the neighboring room. "It will stop snowing far before Advent ends, I can promise you that."

"Can you read the minds of the clouds as well, Edward?" she asked grumpily.

He only laughed weakly at her joke. "Come on in here," he told her from the music room.

With a reluctant sigh, she lifted herself from the sofa and ghosted down the hall toward the open doors.

"Want to play a song together?" he asked with an approachable smile.

"Are you joking?"

He made a pout of mock-offense. "Well, now you've hurt my feelings."

"And here I thought you _had _no feelings..."

"Hilarious. Really."

Esme laughed for the first time in six days.

It was a weak laugh, but it was laughter nonetheless.

"Just sit down," Edward offered wearily, though his grin was anything but.

She joined him willingly on the bench and placed her elbow gently on the keyboard.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you proper piano manners?" he asked with a chuckle as he swatted her arm away.

"You mean table manners?" she teased, fighting him for the space. "Keep your elbows off the table?"

"No," he grunted unappreciatively as he pushed against her for more room. "It's 'keep your elbows off the _piano._'"

"I don't remember that one."

"Indulge me."

"As you wish." She pulled both arms in and tucked her hands into her lap. "Better?"

"That works."

"Now, what are we going to play?"

"Anything." He offered her a small stack of thin brown music books. "But not Christmas songs. I don't like Christmas songs."

Esme thought of selecting a song with something religious in the title just to see if her suspicions to his reaction held true, but decided against it at the last minute. It probably would have reminded her of Carlisle anyway...

Edward made a little noise of discomfort at her thoughts.

"Why don't you like Christmas songs?" she blurted softly, unable to keep her curiosity at bay.

"You already know why."

She had _suspicions _as to why, but she did not truly _know _why.

He gave her a meaningful look, his eyes sparkling like twin spoonfuls of pitiful molasses. Suddenly, she wanted to squeeze his cheeks and kiss the tip of nose.

_Many Christmas songs are religious, but... _

"Yes," he interjected stiffly, turning his eyes down and running his fingers over the keys to soothe himself.

Esme carefully closed the book and laid the stack down beneath the bench.

"Do you ever wonder if...maybe we're wrong about our souls, Edward?"

At first she expected him to brush her aside, or ask her to 'please leave', or tell her _no_, he _didn't _wonder about his soul.

But his shoulders fell in a telling way, and his face grew tender with aching questions.

"Of course I do."

Shifting uncomfortably on the bench beside him, Esme moved slightly closer, and was surprised when Edward did not move away. "You know, there are some things I can't talk to Carlisle about," she said quietly. "Things that only _you _can understand."

She offered him a merciful flood of flashing red images – the snap of her struggle and her unforgivable blood-lust.

Edward looked down at her – a little scared, a little flattered. His head turned toward the ceiling then, and his eyes grew slightly mad.

"You know that feeling..." he began, cryptically, slowly. "Like everything _wrong _you've ever done is coming back to haunt you? Like all the wrong that has ever been done _to you_ is clanging there, in the back of your head like an out of tune song that just won't stop?"

"Yes," she confessed, charged with a chill of relief. "I know that feeling."

She rubbed his shoulder. He was shaking a little bit.

It was never more clear that they both needed one person to confide in, to share the grief in having committed the one crime all vampires must suffer through. All but one, who, no matter how understanding his purest heart tried to be, could never imagine the pain that came from being a victim to this inevitable loss in control.

"That was the one thing Carlisle could never understand," Edward continued slowly, confirming her thoughts. "All he could do was offer me his sympathy. But I don't _want _his sympathy. I just want someone to know what it's like... Am I terrible for wanting that?" his voice hitched on the last word, and she clutched his shoulder fiercely.

"No," she whispered aloud. "Nothing could ever make you terrible, Edward."

While she could not see his face quite clearly, his profile still showed signs of confusion and flickering pain.

"I try to justify my sins all of the time," he murmured shamefully. "I hear Carlisle doing it, constantly, and sometimes... He scares me into thinking that's how we have to live."

Her pity for Edward nearly tripled in the time it had taken him to push the words through. If she'd only known the shame he'd felt from hearing every righteous drop of Carlisle's self-condemning thoughts, living with him while still in doubt that his soul was real, that life was worth the efforts to live forever. If it had been _her _in Edward's position, Esme imagined she very well might have left.

But Edward was still here.

This, she imagined, must have been why Carlisle so desperately loved calling Edward his _son. _

Sons did not leave their fathers. Fathers did not leave their sons.

In the strangest but most beautiful of ways, Carlisle and Edward truly were family. Their bond was real, but it had not yet been sealed with as much care as it should.

"Have you ever told him this?" Esme asked carefully. "The way his thoughts make you feel?"

Edward swallowed heavily, kneading his knuckles into his thigh. "No... But I could never tell him something like that. It's not his fault; it's just the way he was taught – every sin deserves reflection to the point of self-punishment."

Esme sighed solemnly in thought. She wondered vaguely if Carlisle realized that for every sin of _his own _to deserve punishment, then there would not possibly be any hope left for the rest of them.

Carlisle's ideology was complex, and in her opinion, blazingly unfair. How could one man be expected to be the image of perfection? Even God must forgive those who fall short. After all, what would become of the world if saints were the only breed left? How would such a concept of justice even exist if all men were perceived to be perfect?

This was how Carlisle had once thought. Esme could see that some of it still lingered in his eyes. But he was moving away from this, she thought, every time she spoke to him, every time they confessed things to each other. Every time she reminded him of how good he was despite these flaws he sought to erase.

"I think Carlisle is changing now," she revealed in a hopeful whisper. "Don't you?"

"Yes," Edward answered without hesitation. One dark eyebrow quirked in mild enlightenment. "He's been changing since the day he brought _you_ here..."

She paused to look up at him questioningly as her hand ceased its soothing rhythm upon his shoulder.

"Things affect him more now," Edward tried to explain. "He's...sensitive. About you."

Just the word made her heart jitter.

"Does he know how much I care about him?" she asked softly.

Edward calmly nodded, and those two consecutive bows of his head made her world glow.

_Of course Carlisle knew that she cared for him. _

With a sad smile, her head drooped contentedly onto Edward's shoulder.

"I miss him," she sighed as the glow brightened then fizzled.

Edward took her hand from his shoulder and cupped it between his own, a wry smile of reassurance written on his lips.

"As soon as Carlisle can do so without raising suspicion, he'll find a way back. He always does."

However reassuring Edward's words were, they would never be quite enough to comfort Esme's aching heart.

******-}0{-**

If days seven and eight had been pure torture, days nine and ten were pure hell.

It felt a bit like she was climbing a mountain. Every day it looked like she was gaining on the point at the top, but the sky just kept moving higher, and the tip of the summit was rising, further and further away from her. She was cold and exhausted. She didn't want to climb anymore.

Edward's fingers ran wild over the piano keys, trying to drown out her tortured thoughts. He had done all that he could to try and comfort her. Now he was just fed up with her, and perhaps rightly so.

Esme buried herself under the blankets of the blue bed, her head idle between silk and goose-feather pillows as she dreamed of sharing the intimate space with another.

The bed felt cold, so she reluctantly left the quilts and gathered a few matches to light a fire. She tossed them into the fireplace and let them burn, and her heart burned right along with them.

This should not have been so hard for her. It was immature and pitiful to miss someone so dearly that she sunk into depression over his absence for just a week. But with Carlisle gone, the sun may as well have been stolen straight from the sky. Now that he was gone, she thought of everything she had ever wished to tell him and failed. She thought of the times she had longed to touch him and recoiled in shyness. She yearned just to hear his voice again...

Sinking to the carpet before the blazing fire, Esme wept dryly to herself, her hands covering her eyes and her chest shaking from sobs. Edward's piano softened into the background as the crackle of the flames tried to soothe her. She wrapped herself in an inadequate hug and lay her cheek on her knee, watching the fire as she had watched it so many times before. The only difference was this time, he was not by her side.

It was nowhere near as warm as it had been when Carlisle lit it. Fires were inspired by his presence; they longed to be brighter and stronger when he watched. They wanted to be like him.

Esme could almost feel his hand reaching out for hers. She could almost sense the fullness of his grasp as he placed his palm protectively over the back of her hand. She could feel the tender pressure of his fingers beneath her wrist. She could feel her pulse being revived at the simplest of touches because it had come from him.

Her hand began to move across the length of her arm. But in her dream, her touch was _his _touch. Her hand became _his _hand. She commanded him where to touch her next, and he followed religiously, his finger grazing every inch she showed him. With her vehement permission, his hand dipped down past her shoulder, falling slowly along the curve of her waist. He reached the soft plane of her belly, and his hand lingered there, letting her soak in the warmth, tempting her with the suggestion that he could travel further...

And in her dream, for the first time, he did travel further.

Shyly, hesitantly, Esme rested her head against the foot of the bed. Her eyes slowly closed though the fire was begging her attention. Her lips softly parted though her breath had paused. Her hand – his hand – slipped slowly down to lay against her thigh. His touch was not timid, but it was gentle. He was not familiar with the territory, but he was willing to know her better_. _

_His fingers roamed beneath the hem of her dress, wavering on their way down her thigh to settle in the crook of her hip. At first she was afraid, and she shrunk away from his intrusive touch, waiting in unpleasant tension for what would come next. But he spoke to her silently through the motions of his fingers. His touch was reassuring, gentle, patient. She trusted his touch, no matter how unthinkable or indecent its nature. It was pure so long as it came from her doctor's caring hand. The tension slowly began to leave her body as his fingers crept closer to the ache in her lap..._

The music came to a halt. The fire crackled in warning.

Her eyes snapped open and everything from her fingers to the flames froze on the spot.

A moment later, Edward quietly opened the door and stepped into the room. Esme's head shot up in defense, her hands clutching the carpet on either side of her. She expected his face to be livid, but his expression was, surprisingly, full of sympathy.

He stopped when he reached her, lingering a few feet away, hesitant to come any closer. His eyes took in the surroundings – the bed, the fire, the closed curtains, the disheveled state of her dress.

"Esme."

Her neck turned sharply to face away from him, flushed with shame from what he had surely seen through her thoughts.

"I'm not here to chide you."

_Then why are you here?_

"I feel guilty that you've been spending so much time by yourself. It isn't healthy."

She swallowed hard and shook her head.

"You have to find a distraction, Esme," he said in a low voice. Somewhat pathetically he blurted the first suggestion that came to his mind, "Paint something."

She winced. "I've used up all of my canvas, Edward. I need...him...to buy more."

Edward took a long breath and looked deeply into the fire before sitting across from Esme on the floor. Their positions felt awkward for a long minute of unease, considering what he had just interrupted. It was impossible to make eye contact, so they simply settled to stare at the carpet, their eyes lost in the sea of tiny blue fibers.

The instinctual stream of sorries began to fill Esme's thoughts, but Edward put a gentle end to them.

"Don't apologize."

He was always saying that.

"I have nothing left, Edward," she murmured hopelessly as her fingers curled angrily in the carpet. "I have nothing…"

"That's not true. You haven't lost anything. Your circumstances are just changing slightly, but they won't last forever. Things will be fine again once he returns, you'll see."

She turned her face down and tucked her dress securely around her knees, silent as the grave.

"What can I do for you, Esme?" Edward practically begged, his voice quiet but steady. "Tell me, and I will help you. Do you want to hunt again?"

She shook her head.

He sighed and folded his hands.

"What can I help you with?" he insisted once again, sounding more and more like Carlisle as he grew more persistent. "Please tell me."

Esme cringed as the words left her mouth. "Why is this so difficult for me?"

Edward's breath hitched lightly as he looked uncomfortably to the fire, then back at the pleading woman across from him.

"I know your confusion, Esme, I do. But you must understand that your emotions are still…fragile. Not that you haven't come a long way, but you're still…" He looked up, as if asking the angels to bless him with proper choice of words. "You're still…"

They both knew what he was going to say, and they both knew the excuse was wearing down quickly. They could only blame her newborn urges so many times. Something was telling her that there was a deeper cause to the torment. Something was building, ever so slowly inside of her heart, aching to burst, but waiting for a moment that might never come.

"I want to be close to him." Her eyes screwed shut in shame as she brought her knees up to her chest and buried her face against them. "That is all I want."

But it was not all that she wanted. She wanted so much more than just closeness. But now, in her desperation, she wished only to have Carlisle near. Now, ironically, his closeness would have been the most generous blessing.

Edward understood.

Sparing her a last knowing glance, he left her to watch the fire die down alone.

******-}0{-**

On the eleventh night without Carlisle, Esme finally caved. Desperately craving _some _reminder that he was still real, she covered herself in the shawl he had once taken from her shoulders, gathering his scent as she drew it around her neck. In the night, she glided down the stairs and stopped by the front of his study doors, touching the wood with familiar hands.

Somehow she knew Edward was listening, silently encouraging her to enter as he had done long ago_. "Curiosity cannot kill…" _his affectionate voice murmured in her memory.

With one last look at the empty hall, Esme slipped between the doors of the doctor's study, her intention to stay until dawn.

It was disconcerting to see the room in complete darkness. Faint showers of thick snowflakes fell outside the windows, but the room was eerie in its silence, clearly missing the sweet blaze of fire in the ash-filled hearth and the notorious candles that decorated every surface. They were still there, molten steeples of wax that wept to be once again lit by their master. Those candles meant so much more to Carlisle than just serving as a source of light. Those candles kept him company. Each one was different; each had its own lovable personality. Esme took pity on them and held a match to their bare wicks, bearing a flame for each.

Once each candle wore its crown, she settled into Carlisle's chair behind the desk and took in her surroundings. Where the study moments ago more resembled a mausoleum, it now looked like a chapel – still dim, but glowing from every corner with silently flickering flames. And each flame, like the candle it rested upon, was different – in color, in strength, in luminosity. Some were more red, some more yellow, but each had a heart of blazing azure.

She curled her arms around her waist and huddled against the leather chair that still smelt of his scent, thinking it would be so easy to fall asleep right there, had she been able. The emotional fatigue had already sent her heart to sleep.

Esme felt so physically small as she gazed around at the familiar furnishings, and the even more familiar faces on those paintings – the careworn eyes of the romanticized Madonna and Child gazing back at her from above the fireplace. She found it curious that Biblical characters, whenever they were rendered through paint, had that same odd sort of tilt to their head. It was an angle that was just barely feasible for the human neck to achieve, yet it gave them this air of flawless clemency and merciful gentility. She had seen that expression so many times on Carlisle's face, but not until this moment did she realize he had worn those very same eyes and found that very same angle as he looked down at her on the eve he'd first treated her injured leg.

That was the face of a saint she had yet to discover, yet to disrobe of his mystery. She resided now in the very shrine of his essence, with the rest of his possessions, the art of his life story, the collected scraps of his ages on this earth. It was the strangest feeling – a feeling like she _belonged _here. Like _she _was a part of his collection.

Her eyes wandered over all of the things she hadn't allowed herself to look at in as much detail before – the only advantage to his absence.

Like every other surface in the room, the top of the fireplace mantel was strewn with candles of varying sizes, alongside a vast display of mysterious metal instruments, like the entrails of a time machine. Looking closely enough at his highest bookshelves, she could see that he had placed several bookends between multiple volumes to organize them. There was a sun and a moon around the encyclopedia of medicine, two jade Chinese dragons guarding the encyclopedia of foreign countries, and two Roman cherubs embracing the four part Latin dictionary. But Esme's favorite pair consisted of two ceramic Geisha women, seated in mirror positions to face away from one another. They wore ornately painted robes of sea green and sunset pink, their hair and jewelry carefully sculpted around their impassively lovely faces. She wished she could have a closer look at them, but they were too far out of her reach. Even if she climbed that spiral staircase to reach them, she would not be eye-level with the shelf they rested on. She wondered vaguely how Carlisle had gotten them up there in the first place.

Even though he was unarguably a devout Christian, Carlisle had several other religious items that Esme supposed only served as decorative reminders of his travels. On the console by the fireplace sat a fine brass Buddha, a painted sculpture of the Dancing Shiva, a Zeus figure raising a fistful of lightning bolts, and a faded green statue of an Egyptian god-Pharaoh. In the shelf beneath was an empty but elaborate gold Menorah, a silver jeweled chalice, and an Arabian oil lamp that she thought might have contained a magical genie.

Esme's curious head peeked inside every cabinet beneath every bookshelf – some were empty, some were full of dusty pages that had no bindings left to hold their stories intact, and many were too dark to tell if they contained contents at all. But each one had a distinct and often strange scent inside. One smelled like old pennies, and one smelled like burning pine needles, and one smelled like breakfast wafting up the stairs to wake her up at the break of dawn. They were comforting scents – human scents. And that was why they were so strange.

After rummaging gingerly through every drawer she came across, she discovered that her doctor kept a rock collection, a sea star collection, and a coin collection, the last of which had certainly not been started during the most recent century. There were butterflies pinned to corkboards, and insects floating frozen in amber baubles. There were bell jars with nothing under them, and boxes with nothing in them.

A thin wooden case with a broken latch was unlocked to reveal the carefully arranged bones of a small bird-like skeleton. A loose drawer was opened to uncover several stacks of aged hand-written music sheets for a violin solo in E major. A gem-studded pirate chest was pried open to show three eerie looking Aztec warrior masks. The dustiest curtain in the back corner of the room was drawn away to unveil a large but simple carved wooden cross.

Esme took care to leave everything exactly the way she had found it, lest he be suspicious that someone had been tampering with his belongings.

The closed glass cabinet behind his desk had been saved for last.

Carlisle had always seemed most protective of it whenever she watched him in his study. His hand would pass over the glass discreetly whenever he walked by it, and often he would peek inside with a secretive smile, as if his greatest fortune might be locked inside.

Esme wanted to see what Carlisle's greatest fortune was.

The first thing that caught her eye when she opened it was a small, painstakingly detailed pirate ship inside a bottle, a necessity for an eccentric traveler's study. With a lopsided smile, she traced the glass with her fingertip, wondering if he had been the one who had assembled it. Or was it a gift from someone special to him? If so, who?

Beside the bottle were several tightly bound scrolls that looked so old, she feared they might crumble if she breathed too closely on the paper.

On the second shelf down was an extensive display of finger rings, all molded from solid gold and platinum, set with precious stones of every color. But they were not like any other rings. They were elaborate to the point of being too ostentatious even to wear. Several even looked as if they might have been too _heavy _to wear, at least comfortably. The row in the back were shaped into various animals – one like a phoenix head, one like a twisting snake, one like the bejeweled back of a turtle's shell, followed by a grinning crocodile, a bald eagle with its wings outspread, a growling lion, and a glaring wolf. The fourteen in front were most obvious in their narrative. The face of each depicted in fine ivory relief a scene from the passion of Christ carrying the cross to Golgotha. Esme's inner artist was awestruck by the fastidious filigree of details etched into each smooth stone, each one more colorful than the last.

In the lowermost shelf of the cabinet was a polished wooden case carved to look like Noah's ark. When opened, the inside held at least seventy or so tiny pairs of animal figurines, no bigger than the size of her thumbnail. Each animal was intricately painted with shimmering colors, handcrafted with exotic precision. With patient fingers, Esme aligned each animal beside its mate in a long row on the floor, studying each with wonder as she lifted it from its case – sapphire blue elephants, and wild multi-colored parrots, and elegant horses, and skinny giraffes, and proud lions, and coppery cattle, and pale pink pigs. Perched on the very top of the ark, she had missed the last figurine – a single pearly dove with a thread-thin olive branch in its beak.

Pair by pair, Esme placed the animals safely back inside their case and closed the lid, hoping they would be ready to endure a forty day blizzard.

Because _she _was certainly not ready.

As she rose from the carpet, Esme again found herself standing face to face with the doctor's desk. In her preoccupation with the rest of the room she had somehow passed over the central piece of furniture. Its surface was spotless, save for one closed book in the very center. Beside it lay a fountain pen which was undoubtedly filled with peacock blue ink. At first she'd thought the book to be a Bible, but stepping closer she saw that it bore no label on the front. Only his name, "C. Cullen," had been carefully etched into the thin tan leather cover.

A chill raced up her spine as she realized what it must have been.

A journal.

Oh, why hadn't her eyes simply passed over this one uninteresting item? Why, at the very last moment, had she needed to see the very thing that should have been kept the furthest out of her reach?

It was right there, just begging to be opened. Esme found herself restlessly warring with her conscience over whether one tiny peek at the very first page would do any harm.

Her hand reached out to stroke the edge of the journal, receiving a tantalizing current of approval from the smoothly worn cover. It had been opened and closed many times by its loyal writer. It had endured the weight of his hand upon its pages, the pressure of his blazing blue words, the pleasure of his poetry as he whispered under his breath with the practiced tempo of his accented wording.

What secrets did the good doctor keep hidden in this book?

Snapping her own hand away with a mental strike to her palm, Esme winced at how closely and flippantly she had considered invading Carlisle's privacy in such a way. He would never dream of doing something like that to her. Edward was in the house, and as wrapped up in his own little world he might be, he would certainly hear her thoughts if she were to open that journal. There was simply no way to do it acceptably.

She _wasn't _going to do it. It wasn't right...

Folding her hands tightly behind her back just to ensure that she kept her promise, Esme sighed and reclined into the cushioned reading chair by the windows.

How she wished Carlisle could have been here with her now. What enchanting stories he might have told her about those relics in his sweet, soothing voice. What gentle touches he might have placed upon her hand had they explored the contents of those drawers and shelves together. What soft wit he might have whispered to her as he fiddled with the curtains by the windows, what tender smiles might have made her lifeless veins race. For a flashing instant, she thought she caught the form of his face in one of those brightly glowing candle flames, but when her eyes adjusted, it had vanished, just like her hope.

Esme watched every one of the candles die out, hour by hour, as their smoky perfume slipped away little by little. The snow had stopped sometime in the middle of the night, and though she had awaited its end for so long, she felt even lonelier when the soft patting of snowflakes on the rooftop finally faded away.

The very last candle to survive the night struggled to provide her with light even as it reached the end of its life. She watched it closely as she might a limping spider, waiting and wondering; how long will it last?

With a significant tilt of her head, Esme had mercy on that last stubborn candle, and gently breathed a cool stream of air over its flame, putting it out of its misery. She watched the tendrils of gray smoke wisp away, and the scent was miraculously comforting, reverent to her senses.

In that tiny moment of inanimate care, she was enlightened to why Carlisle had always referred to these candles as being holy.

A peaceful warmth curdled in her heart as the dawn pressed its slender pink arms over the horizon. The snow gleamed in the faint light of the sun, but the sky was clear – sugarplum blue without a single cloud, and she could still make out the stars that had yet to fade.

Everything Esme could see from those windows was glistening with hope. She could wait patiently for everything she wanted, she could accept however long it took… She could survive.

As the sun lifted over the snow, her eyes drifted helplessly back to the journal laying innocently on the doctor's desk. There her gaze remained fixed as the sun rose slowly, seductively over the horizon. The leather-bound cover looked so very inviting with its beaten corners and warm reddish brown color.

Unthinkingly, Esme rose from her place by the window to walk over to the desk once more.

Her hand paused over the cover of the book, and a tempting heat seemed to rise up from it, burning the center of her palm. Oh, the words he had written must have been so warm...

She bit her tongue and held her breath and tried everything possible to stop herself from tipping the corner up for just one glance.

Then again, just one simple peek at the very first page couldn't possibly do much harm...

Before she could second guess herself, Esme pinched the edge of the book's cover, and gently opened it to reveal the first worn yellow page.

_1st March, 1921_

_Today was a cold day – the coldest I have known in a long, long time. Here, as I sit watching her, I am still cold. So cold._

_She is beautiful. Her beauty is foreign to me, for I have rarely seen such beauty before in a woman of my kind. The thought that I have created her, that this beauty is a miracle of my venom alone confounds me. She is radiant in the throes of her untimely death, and I am terrified – terrified to see what shall become of her; terrified for the moment when she will open her new eyes and see me, her forgotten childhood doctor. _

_She will see me as a stranger. She will look upon me with fearful eyes, and a shuddering heart. She will want to end her life yet again, and I will be powerless to stop her. _

_Esme Anne Platt. The name has always been a strangely familiar chime in the back of my mind. Her name has changed – "Esme Evenson" they told me when they hauled her small body in from the cold night. There was something unsettling about the flow of her new name. It was printed, so neatly on that pale yellow card they had stapled to her dress. So very disturbing was it to me, that I ripped the card in half when I saw it, though I regret that I still cannot say why..._

_I knew her as an innocent child once. She was a young girl, barely balanced on the brink of womanhood. She has haunted me once in a blue moon over these lonely times – at least once every year, on a thick summer's eve, I have remembered her. Her face, clear as the river's waters, soft as moonlight behind my troubled eyes._

_This very morning, I saw her in the sound sleep of death, her broken body pallid and weak, lying on a hospital bed. She had returned to me after a decade, this young woman I once knew. No longer was she so young, yet her age seemed to defy her even in death. She lay before me, coated with bruises, her soft skin ruined by the bite of rock and wind. Her blood once sang to me – a sweet, gentle song – but today it had no harmony. Today it made me ill. _

_I was tortured as I wondered what could have driven her to the edge of that cliff. I wanted to deny them when they told me this woman had been willing to jump. She had given herself to death – this thought made me want to wretch. It pained me to imagine her, a wingless angel falling from the sky in a hopeless plummet into a black abyss below. Never would I have dreamt this Esme would appear in my life again, anywhere but behind the shade of my memories. _

_In my memory she was still just a gentle child with a lopsided smile and kind hazel eyes. I had much preferred my memory to the cold reality of the woman who lay before me. I saw her there in her bed, her pillow made a pale pink by her blood. The blush now washed away from her face, never to return in twin roses on her cheeks. She was a wilting blossom, a fading fragrance, a glorious image of surrender if I had ever seen one. With every moment I watched her, her breath grew quieter, fainter, weaker. Yet her heart had thumped with heavy promise, and I was not willing to let that promise fade. _

_I was bold today. I made many a rash decision, with very little thought. Yet time does not let me feel such shame. I had no time to hold myself back. I had no desire to step aside and watch while she crumbled from within. No, Esme would live. _

_So I stole Esme from the clutches of death. I have never felt anything so rough, so passionate, so visceral fill my heart before. I had no choice in the matter. Even with the holy hand of the Lord tugging my shoulder, I could not be held back. No, I had made this decision a thousand times before in another life, perhaps – it was predestined, I am sure of it. _

_I felt something more when I looked at her. I would be a fool to turn away from such a strong feeling, such a sharp and almost loving impulse. I've done better deeds in my life, but this one was so frighteningly different. Neither brave nor foolish. Neither gratuitous nor selfish. It simply _was…

_Today, I have made another vampire. I have ignited another fire in the throat of an innocent human. I have imposed upon her the torturous fever of immortality. She will know the brutality of the most unimaginable pain and suffering, from the scorch of my venom. I am a terrible man for cursing Esme. This pure, innocent, pitiful woman. This soft and unassuming soul. I have destroyed her. I am a thief, a rapist, and a killer. I have stolen her mortality, and raped her humanity, and murdered her hopes and dreams. _

_I am writing now, as I watch her. It has been but six hours since the horror began; already it is unbearable. I fear that writing is the only way to keep my sanity, the only comfort I have. I must cast out my demons through written words, for spoken words will only go forth unheard. _

_As I write, she cries out in her torture, thrashing on the bed, writhing in her agony. I see her hand flail out, and I think she is reaching for me. But when I go to grasp her hand, she sharply pulls away again. Her voice calls out in wordless shuddering screams. I long to whisper back to her, to soothe her fear, but my words run dry. I have nothing to say to this woman; nothing I can say will redeem me from the pain I have inflicted upon her. She feels nothing but the pain I have so generously given her. She sees nothing but blackness before her frightened eyes. I must watch her suffer; I must wait. _

_I must face the consequences of this wretched whim. I must claim responsibility for this woman and her immortal life. I must vow to be her keeper, for as long as she shall have me. I must vow to inform her and protect her and fulfill her every need as I have with Edward, my son. _

_I promise to be a better man for Esme, the woman I once knew, and now know again._

_This promise I make, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. _

_Amen._

The last written word stung like an unsolvable riddle in her mind. Her head was spinning, and somewhere in the course of reading the entry, her heart had somehow started to beat once again.

Thrilled and stunned and filled with delicious terror, Esme stared at the open book, frozen in time. Still sizzling with the brash invasion of privacy, she slapped the book shut and pulled her fingers through her hair, backing away from the desk on shaky legs.

What she had seen was not meant for her eyes. Yet knowing this made it all the more significant, all the more irresistible.

This was a snippet of Carlisle's soul – a piece of his beautifully tormented heart, laid bare in ink and fingerprints on the pages of his journal. Esme's mind reeled with the thought of how many pieces she could discover yet, by digging deeper into those pages, by drinking in every hastily scripted paragraph and analyzing every carefully crafted word.

The contents of Carlisle's heart and soul were poetry. Pure, masterful, agonized poetry.

He had written about her. He had written of the day he had chosen to make her like him.

Somewhere in the dark, empty house, Edward's humble ears overheard this epiphany, but he, being the wiser, said nothing to acknowledge it. When Esme walked out of the doctor's study at the break of dawn, stunned and silent, the boy took her hand and laid his chin over her head.

"You've changed _him_ so much more than he has changed _you_," he whispered into her hair.

She embraced Edward with all her might.

He held her tighter than ever, and Esme felt rejuvenated by his closeness, reawakened by the weak stream of sunlight that bent protectively over them from the frosty window.

******-}0{-**

Edward never left her side from then on.

By the end of the twelfth day, the snow had melted enough to allow for risky traffic along the streets. Edward had bundled his lanky body in several thick layers of jackets and braved the two feet deep ocean of snow to clear whatever of the driveway that he could. Fortunately, their front door was still accessible thanks to the roofed veranda that protected the house's entrance from snow accumulation. The wind had brought at least four inches or so under the porch, but it was nothing a quick sweep of the broom could not take care of.

Throughout the afternoon, Edward ventured out every so often to gauge the status of the roads that wound toward their property. Esme watched and waited patiently from the upstairs window. After the first two times he had returned to her with no positive news, she began to lose her patience.

Poor Edward would barely spend two minutes inside the warm house before she sent him out to check again.

"I just went out there!" He sounded so much like a teenage son it made her heart swell with burdensome love.

"I know you did, now run up there again!" Esme put her superior strength to good use, pushing him out the door from behind.

She slammed the door shut and tapped her foot impatiently on the tile as she watched him disappear then reappear in the familiar twenty to thirty second time frame.

Seventeen and a quarter seconds.

He was getting lazy on her.

She tossed open the door when she saw him running back down the hill. "I know you aren't really checking, Edward!"

His exasperated groan was muffled by the insulation of the snow. To her surprise, he did not argue, but he turned around and trudged at human pace back up the hill toward the road.

Esme sighed grimly to herself and closed the door again, trudging her own path up the stairs. The hall was more empty than ever. Even if she was alone in the house for only twenty seconds at a time, she could feel the slick sting of loneliness.

She wondered if Carlisle had been suffering through that feeling as much as she had lately. She had to remind herself yet again, that even if he were stranded in a sub-zero blizzard, he could have easily taken care of himself. But it was not until now that she realized it was not his safety she was truly worried for all this time. It was his happiness.

She just could not bear the thought of Carlisle being alone again. Esme had been tragically selfish with herself when she'd had Edward for company all along. Carlisle had no one he could bare his deepest feelings to. He would have had a sparse number of colleagues at best, and the patients he would be expected to care for could not provide a comforting hand if he needed it.

The injustice of it made her ill. Carlisle did not deserve to be alone. He could not go on this way, doing everything for everyone and penciling himself in at the very bottom of his list only to scratch himself out again. He was too reckless with his time and care, like butter spread too thin over toast. She wished he would swallow a healthy dose of selfishness once and a while, but his altruism was irreversible.

His unfailing kindness was why she had fallen so far for him since the moment she had seen that boundless compassion in his careworn eyes. She had a reason for loving him – it was there all along. She only had not realized it since it was far too easy to see. It was possible that she thought of him every day of her life, not because of his beautiful face, but because she had seen the beautiful generosity of his heart.

She loved every piece of him – physically, emotionally, and perhaps even spiritually. Every piece of his past, every piece of his poetry, every piece of his heart.

Her eyes grew glossy with venom as she watched Edward strolling silently back to the door. The boy was taking his time to make her happy for when he opened that door. No doubt he thought upon his entry that she would only shoo him back out into the cold again. But Esme decided now that she couldn't do that to him again. She would let Edward sit by the fire and wait patiently inside the house with her. She could accept that maybe today just wasn't the day for her doctor to come home.

Esme listened to Edward sniff as he closed the door behind him and rubbed his hands together in a lovable human habit. She heard him step into the sitting room and toss a new log onto the fire. Then he sat himself down with a forlorn sigh and was quiet.

She hugged herself as she leaned against the cold glass of the window, her cool breath warm enough against it to make little clouds of steam, and everything about this made her so inexplicably sad. How cold did it have to be out there for her own breath to warm the windows?

She pressed her hand to the glass and touched the tops of the trees, traced the stratus of the sky, watched the white snow turn gray, then blue as the early evening set in.

When her heart had given up hope that she would see her doctor's silhouette coming for the door, she reluctantly gathered herself up onto her two legs and went back downstairs to join Edward by the fireplace.

The look of pity he cast her as she sat down beside him only made her feel sadder. He looked away into the fire, then put a tentative arm around her, and the shallow rhythm of his breath was almost soothing when she didn't think.

"I'm sorry for making you run out there twenty-two times." She apologized against his hard, narrow shoulder.

His chest vibrated lightly where she touched him, his raspy voice worn with gentle amusement. "Actually it was twenty-three times," he corrected.

She smiled sheepishly beneath his chin, lovingly tightening her hold on his shoulder as her eyes were drawn back to the fireplace. "Twenty... three..."

Edward tensed around her, fully aware of the significance of the unfortunate number as it echoed mournfully in her head.

He held her tighter for a few moments until she turned her head down, practically burying her nose in his collar.

"I want him back," she whispered to the tiny buttons on Edward's comfortable flannel shirt. It smelled of maple and sweet fig, and made her heart long for autumn, though it had always been her least favorite of the seasons.

"So do I."

The hushed words were so surprising to her, she doubted for a moment that they had been real. She turned vulnerably in his arms to glance up at his face. Edward stared steadily forward, the citrine sincerity in his gaze flickering absently in the light from the fire.

They spent the rest of the night like that, and even in the darkness they were not lonely, because they had each other to hold.

As the first exquisite droplets of dawn filled the dark room, Edward's neck became rigid beneath Esme's head. She straightened immediately to look up at him, and the unprecedented intensity of his expression confused her.

"Edward—?"

But he was gone in a flash.

She sat still for a moment, frozen in the same position she had been when he'd suddenly fled from her arms.

There were distant noises outside – hums and scrapes – but nothing that would have alerted them to an approaching engine. There was, however, the crunching of hard leather boots on snow – and she would have thought it was only Edward heading up that hill again, but then she remembered...

Edward had been barefoot.

Although an automobile would have failed upon the thin but indestructible layer of ice that had managed to cement everything outside, a vampire could make it through even the worst conditions. And that was precisely what the doctor had done.

The first precious particle of his fragrant presence that nestled itself beneath her nose had her sprinting for the door.

The bittersweet completeness, the utter _elation_ she felt at knowing Carlisle was approaching that door again after so long was as frightening to her as it was embarrassing. It took great restraint not to tumble into the deep white sea in their front yard, race across the promenade, and fling herself against him in desperate joy, knocking him into the snow with the force of her embrace.

She almost did it.

But he had reached the door first. And he opened the door as he had done so many times before, only this time with a tousled, barefoot Edward grinning awkwardly at his side.

Like every day before when Carlisle had opened that door, Esme felt a shock tremble through her body. But this time it was for an entirely different reason.

His face was stark and ghostlike, paler than snow, and even his hair was like platinum in unkempt shallow waves – all of him was so _white _that he truly did look like a dying man.

She had never seen his eyes so dark. She had thought those morbid purple shadows gathered only under her own eyes when she had been denied blood. But upon his return, they immediately startled her. Like everything else that could have tainted his face, though, they were somehow becoming. Nothing could have dampened her fierce appreciation for him, especially not after such a long time apart.

In fact, she never remembered him looking so handsome before.

He had not stopped to hunt before returning home to them. His first concern had been for their safety above his own comfort. It had somehow slipped his mind that nothing life-threatening could have happened to a pair of perfectly indestructible vampires.

And now he was here, greeting her at that door just the same as he would have had there only been twelve hours since their last goodbye. He had said not a word since he opened the door. He only stared at her, as if he couldn't believe she was really here.

He was taller than she'd remembered, but the form of his body was so wonderfully familiar, standing before her as his eyes locked to her face.

It was exactly the same, but so, so different.

Just the same, she lifted her hand in a silent offer to hold the medical bag as he removed his coat, and as their fingers brushed this time, she could not help but notice he was wearing the same pair of black leather gloves.

She shivered at his covered touch, and it felt like she had crossed into the simmering aura of a reincarnated saint. She was heaven-struck by his presence, even more so now, having seen the open pages of his heart in glistening blue ink. He was here before her, right in front of her, and she could _feel _the presence of everything she had seen that night in his study, just by watching him move about in front of that closet as he had done countless times before.

His eyes had never parted from hers since the moment he'd stepped through that door. He pulled off his scarf and unbuttoned his coat, moving slowly and idly before her. But his gaze was stamped to her face, unmoving and intimate. His arms at last stopped moving, having nothing left to do, and he smiled with a gentle, tired sort of wisdom that thrilled her.

Oh, how she longed to hear him speak… Just one word would have felt divine in her ear, just one murmur would have quelled that need in her heart.

But Carlisle was waiting for her to speak first. He was communicating so very much with his unfaltering black eyes. He needed to hear her voice just as much, enough that his bated breath would keep him from words until _she_ had spoken. He was waiting for _her._

So she said, "Welcome home."

Her voice was weak, but her words were strong.

Carlisle's eyes were flooded with profound appreciation, so beautifully blatant, so sheer that it burned her. Then he pulled those gloves off his hands and freed ten perfect fingers to grasp her in a firm, unexpected embrace.

He had not warned her – though in his defense, he did not realize just how cruel it was for him to attack her so...generously. For her to be taken by surprise, all but scooped up into his arms, the titillating tightness of his hands pressing into her back, between her shoulder blades, at the base of her spine. His arms felt so full, so anchored, so strong.

He was cold as she slipped her arms freely about his neck, and the chill beneath his clothes made his shoulders feel as if they had been sculpted from ice. But in that steadfast circle of his arms, that standstill whirlpool of emotion and unreciprocated infatuation, she was drowning against the feel of his lungs breathing her air, breathing _her. _She was shivering because he was so cold, but she was trembling because he was so close. She was impossible to satisfy, because she still wanted him even closer.

His voice, a familiar velvet ribbon over her ear, spoke softly against her, "It's so warm here..."

She froze, clutching his shoulders with both hands, feeling so small while he held to her. The lingering echo of his whispered remark left her impossibly puzzled.

_Where _was it warm? Here, in his home again after so long spent alone in the cold outside world? Or here, exclusively, in _her _embrace?

Selfishly, she hoped he meant the latter.

For those precious seconds of sizzling security, she thought she felt evidence in the steadfast strength of his hold, that he had missed her just as deeply as she had missed him.

Hell would stun her and heaven would revive her if this were true.

But in this innocent reunion, he felt so needy and so wistful, so _passionate_ that she had to stand back and marvel at him – all of him – when he finally gave her silent permission to do so. But he still held firmly to her hand.

She swallowed painfully, her chin trembling as she tried to find the right words. But in all she could have said, nothing seemed more right than the most simple, childlike confession.

"I missed you."

A breathless smile crossed his lips, and it nearly sent her head spinning. His relief was palpable, as was his joy as he held her tightly and replied, "I missed you as well, Esme. I missed you both so dearly."

It was then when she noticed Edward, his eyes watchful and warm behind the shoulder of his father. He smiled softly when Esme caught his gaze, and Carlisle let out a tiny, tender gust of laughter that turned her heartstrings to wind chimes.

It baffled her when she felt his hand tugging her closer, inviting her to relive their embrace once again. And she consented gladly, flinging herself against him with even more urgency than before.

The pure feeling of _family _was never so strong between them as it was in that moment. And she knew it was the same for all three of them, as they stood closer to one another than they ever had before, still barely able to believe that they were again under the same roof, safe and sound.

Carlisle had never held her for so long before, and she had never held to _him_ for so long, with so little hesitation. She was not holding back, she was giving everything she had…and it almost felt like he was giving everything back to her. His hands were so very welcome to keep holding tighter… She could take everything he would offer her, and she would never break.

As his right hand reached across the delicate dip of her waist, she felt the words he had written come rushing back, bringing idle tears to her eyes. The bright blue romance of his most private thoughts burned in her memory. She could see the birth of his chosen words in his eyes as he looked down at her, and she truly believed that she had changed Carlisle as profoundly as he had changed her.

His gaze held only the faintest hint of confusion as he watched her, a delicate puzzle behind the night-bitten gold of his impossibly gentle eyes. He was so full of affection, so brimming with appreciation, and every line on his face and twinkle in his gaze seemed to say _"I am here."_

Esme could think of no better way to be sure of this than to wrap her arms further around him and nestle her head yet again against the solid strength of his shoulder.

For that moment, this was all she truly needed. She had his closeness. She had Carlisle in her arms, and he was not going anywhere. Not for a while.

In just two weeks of his absence, Esme had learned so much more about_ herself _than she had ever expected to learn. She had discovered herself through _his _unspoken words, through his thoughts and worries and prayers. She had peered through a tiny window, enlightened to how Carlisle had seen _her_, and it was the most intoxicating view of herself she would ever see.

Only when he had stepped through that door, with snow sparkling on his shoulders and utter relief shining in his eyes did she realize this blizzard had _not _been a curse. It was perhaps the greatest gift they had been given. With each passing second they stood, wrapped in this innocent yet fervent embrace, Esme was understanding where Carlisle had come from, relic by relic. She was silently studying the contents of his heart, inch by inch. She was tenderly picking him apart, piece by piece.

* * *

_**A/N: **__I would venture to say that this chapter is one of the most important in Esme's journey toward discovering both who she is, and the reasons why her love for Carlisle is so strong. Writing this chapter was a most incredible experience for me, and it would make my day to hear what you thought of the finished product. _

_You can read part of this chapter from Carlisle's perspective in __**Behind Stained Glass**__**,**__ "Chapter 17: The Warmest Welcome."_


	41. Heart Shaped Soap

**Chapter 41:**

**Heart Shaped Soap **

* * *

Although there had seemed to be no end to the blizzard in sight, it had arrived at last against all odds. Their final reunion set fire to a new kind of warmth inside their home, and though they had not openly acknowledged the subtle change, there was no denying that they had all come closer as a result of their time spent apart. The morning Carlisle came home to them, Edward and Esme had dragged the doctor back into the sitting room where they promptly rekindled the fire and placed him down in his armchair, demanding stories from him about all that gone on at the hospital.

Carlisle practically glowed that they were so interested in what he had been through without them. It touched Esme's heart to see the genuine smile on his face, the fiery appreciation in his eyes as he answered her every question. He was here with her now, a regular hero having at last returned from his escapades in the historic blizzard. He was content to settle before the fire and humor his counterparts until the evening's arrival, though his eyes were steadily darkening from neglected thirst. By the fall of night, Edward gently encouraged his father to hunt. Carlisle reluctantly consented.

Though it was nearly impossible to find good game close by in this weather, Carlisle had managed to return home in just an hour, his eyes sparkling a healthy shade of topaz.

Whatever he had fed upon must have given him a particularly magical energy.

Since Carlisle had returned from his twelve day absence, he had spent twice as much time watching Esme wherever she happened to be. His footsteps became the echoes of her own two bare feet in the hallway, and when she turned to find him behind her, he was clutching his journal against his hip as if it had become a crucial extension of himself that must be taken everywhere.

Esme had certainly not anticipated that the prolonged period of absence would have as much an effect on the doctor as it had on her. But she had not been the one to follow him everywhere through the house for days afterward. Carlisle had followed _her_.

It was strange being the center of his attention for so many hours at a time. His odd but wonderful intensity in showing more interest toward her quickly became addicting to the point where if he happened to look away for a minute, Esme panicked over how to reclaim his gaze.

Whenever they found a spare moment to speak together, often with Edward in their company, she could not help but notice that Carlisle would flip open his journal and scribble something at lightning-speed, only to close it again as if pretending he had not written anything. When he looked up again, it was almost guaranteed that his eyes would be fastened securely onto hers.

He was writing more openly now, though she couldn't guess why. His journal never left his hand for an instant if he could help it. If Edward had noticed the doctor's peculiar attachment to the worn leather book, it may have explained the boy's constant eye-rolling when Carlisle hastily filled half a page during the middle of their conversation. Edward obviously _knew _what it was Carlisle kept writing. Esme was tempted to ask him, but having already crossed the line in invading Carlisle's privacy by viewing the first two pages, she decided against it.

It should have been enough that she had seen just those first pages. It should have brought her satisfaction, knowing she had some piece of his soul to ponder. But the longer she watched him scribbling away day after day, the harder she had to fight her urgent desire to see more. Esme wondered what those more recent pages would look like...

She had to wonder if Carlisle ever noticed the hunger in her stare when her eyes glanced down to that book in his lap. The fact that he so often placed it to rest on his thigh did not do much to legitimize the nature of her gaze. All she could do was take care not to let her eyes linger. Surely his suspicions would heighten even more if she were any less cautious.

Yet he never said anything. Carlisle was completely silent as to what had caused his renewed obsession with writing, and Esme was completely obsessed with discovering more.

Her eyes were helplessly pasted on the cover of Carlisle's journal where it sat beside him, as they spoke together in the sitting room in the afternoon.

Edward tried all manner of ways to divert her attention elsewhere, but all of his attempts, though amusing thus far, had failed. Until he came out with a particularly flagrant remark.

"I think one day I'd like to go to medical school," Edward proposed thoughtfully, the sureness of his voice making the statement completely inarguable.

Carlisle looked impossibly pleased. "You told me that was a preposterous idea when I last suggested it to you."

Edward simply shrugged with a smile, his eyes shifting stealthily to Esme. "I changed my mind."

"Doctor Edward Cullen," Esme mused out loud, playing along.

"No, no, no," Edward interrupted, waving his hand in disapproval. "I wouldn't want to be a_ doctor_." He turned to Carlisle. "No offense to you."

Carlisle narrowed his eyes, slightly hurt, but didn't say anything.

"I just want to learn something new."

Esme's eyes flickered between the two men for a moment before she considered with a small smile. "Well, that's just as admirable I suppose."

"I can hear what you're really thinking, you know."

Esme giggled and made sure to avoid Carlisle's direct gaze should it pass over her face. She could feel his eyes on her distinctly as she busied herself with counting the sparks that flew from the fire. More heat came from the direction of his gaze than from the fireplace, she was certain.

"You know, I think it's about time I fixed that clock now," Edward interrupted again.

Carlisle looked up in curiosity. "Which clock?"

"The 315 foot tall one in London," Edward said sarcastically. He shook his head as Carlisle looked on dumbly. "The one on the mantel."

"Oh, that one," Carlisle murmured noncommittally, looking back down to his journal.

An irritated smile twitched on Edward's lips. "I always enjoy a good ticking noise when I'm trying to concentrate on my daily tasks."

"Mmmhmm." Carlisle mumbled an insincere agreement, again utterly lost in the pages of the book in his lap.

Edward looked mildly murderous.

Rising up from his seat by the fire, he plucked the small bronze device from the mantel and headed for the door. "I'm always fixing things around here..."

As soon as Edward was out of the room, Esme turned to Carlisle. "Did you hear that?"

The doctor smirked lovingly to himself. "He likes to feel important."

"But he's right in a way," she pointed out, glancing around at the cobwebby corners of the old room's interior. "There are a lot of things in his house that could use...adjustments."

"This house does require a fair amount of upkeep," Carlisle agreed with a sigh. "I sometimes feel guilty that so much of it has been neglected over the years. In all honesty, we just don't have the interest to do anything to fix it. Besides, this house has…character, wouldn't you say?"

She shrugged. "It could still have 'character' if it was just a little cleaner."

He rose gracefully from his armchair, closing his journal with a soft smile. "Well, I'd say it's a good thing we don't have to worry about visitors, then," he whispered teasingly before he left her in the room to ponder.

This gave Esme a lovely idea.

As a gift to Carlisle and Edward for the approaching holiday, Esme decided to tidy up the lesser visited rooms of the house. Besides the music room, her bedroom, the library, the sitting room, and Carlisle's study, not many rooms of the house were used. That didn't mean they had to endure the rest of the year coated in dust.

Esme was a swift little storm as she made her way through the halls with a duster and a dishcloth. Her travels were quick but fulfilling. Somehow a cleaner house felt more like a home.

At the very end of the second floor hallway, she stumbled upon a nursery. It was a ridiculously large room, two-floors high with an outdoor balcony and the ubiquitous chandelier, which were all frightfully impractical for the child who would have slept there. The walls were decked in powder blue and pale yellow and painted gardenia blossoms, with white paneling wrapped around the room like a protective fence. The carpet was surprisingly devoid of much dust, white as the snow outside, and the room was empty save for a few abandoned child's toys. A cracked porcelain doll in the corner stared at her with glassy eyes, taunting her in its silence. This room would never again be a haven for breathless, sparkly baby laughter and innocence...

But the idea that there had once been children, either one or many, that had lived in this house was something of a comfort to her. It made the house seem so much less cold. Esme saw so much more clearly that this house desperately longed to be more than just an ominous, sprawling old mansion – it longed to be _home. _It had not needed to try so hard. It already was.

This house was and forever would be the closest thing to a true home Esme had ever known. The approaching holiday only made it feel that much warmer. She would have every room looking ready for Christmas before the day was through.

While scrubbing down the unused kitchen, she came across an old recipe book that had been left inside a cupboard. It shouldn't have been a terribly entertaining read compared to the vast library of literature she had at her disposal upstairs. But once she had sat down with it, Esme couldn't take her eyes away. She was reminiscing with every page she turned, recalling the seductive taste of food as she had once remembered it, wondering how she had never again longed for an appetizing dish of cherry cobbler or a slice of freshly baked bread.

It wasn't long before she decided to make use of that old recipe book.

Even during a snowstorm, Edward was grateful for an excuse to get out of the house every once in a while. As a loving suggestion, Esme sent him to the grocery store along with a long list of ingredients she needed to make at least a dozen of the recipes in the book. He embarked on his quest without argument, returning several hours later with a sack full of ingredients that made him look like a much younger, infinitely more attractive Santa Claus.

She invited him into the kitchen to help her start out, and of course any activity that had the potential for making a grand mess was of interest to Edward. Esme carefully tore out the pages of the recipes she intended to try and placed them on the counter in the order she wanted to bake them.

A satisfied smirk crossed Edward's devilishly handsome face as he read the first page she had torn out. "I couldn't help but notice that you crossed 'powdered sugar' off the list of ingredients for this particular recipe..."

Esme snatched the list from under his hand, flustered. "Powdered sugar is a _decorative_ ingredient. It isn't necessary, so I dropped it from the list," she excused.

Edward chuckled. "Decorative ingredient..." he gushed in a low, sardonic voice behind her. "Oddly enough, I've heard they decorate _people _with powdered sugar these days as well."

She looked to him with an ungrateful glare. "You know, I've changed my mind. I don't need your help. Run along now."

"I'm just trying to get a laugh out of you. You're awfully businesslike when it comes to this kitchen nonsense," he defended.

"My mother used to say that a man may be king in every other room of the house, but a woman will always be queen of the kitchen."

"That's ridiculous," he scoffed. "Then again, being king of every other room does have its advantages..."

"All right, enough chatter. Be quiet and make yourself useful."

"Yes, my Queen."

After a productive minute of unpacking ingredients, Edward interrupted the flow. "Doesn't it seem like whenever Carlisle is gone, we have more fun?"

Her throat tightened unpleasantly. "That isn't a very nice thing to say, Edward."

"But you agreed with me!"

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, that was your first thought **– **'_Oh, God, he's right.'_"

"Well... I'm more relaxed when he's not here. So obviously it _feels _like I'm enjoying myself more when he's not around."

"Mm hmm."

_But I miss him terribly. Even when he's away for just a few minutes. I know it's silly, but I can't help it._

Edward sighed heavily in understanding. "It may not be as silly as you think," he told her. "Vampires typically form very strong bonds with each other if they've been living together for a long time. It's even more common to feel a certain pull toward one's sire...but of course that is debatable in some cases."

Sadly, Esme had to wonder if Edward was referring to his own case.

"Not me," he quelled her concern, "I mean those whose first instincts are to run from the one who turned them. Some have an outright aversion, some feel a pull. I'd guess it's fifty-fifty." He shrugged.

"Did you ever try to run away from Carlisle in the beginning?"

"No, actually, I didn't," he said quickly, a little proudly. "I trusted him for the most part. He had been my doctor after all," he paused with a solemn glaze in his eyes. "And he had tried to save my mother."

Esme reached out and touched his arm in sympathy.

The contact brought him promptly back to life, a comforting smirk in place on his face. "But that doesn't mean I was so easily manageable in my early days. Not by any means."

She giggled. "That I could guess."

"It's kind of baffling to me that Carlisle didn't come closer to abandoning me in the middle of nowhere and hightailing it back to Europe on his own."

Esme smiled. "You were probably the best thing to happen to him in a hundred years."

A strange look crossed Edward's youthful face, as if he hadn't ever stopped to think of this before. Surely he'd heard it thousands of times from Carlisle's thoughts **– **the appreciation, the need, the wholesome gratitude of having his company. But even the boldest thoughts could be ignored **– **just the same as words often go misunderstood.

"No, Esme," he countered softly, "I think _you_ were that."

She felt a surge of violent warmth fill her from her feet to her neck.

Edward leaned gracefully against the counter so that she had nowhere to look but at him. "You've taught him a lot. You don't realize it, and maybe it's better that you don't. But you've forced him to see many things he failed to see before **–** about himself, about the way he leads his life." A conservative smile crossed Edward's ruddy lips. "He really has become a different man since he changed you."

Esme's eyes widened slightly in awe. "What was he like before?"

"He..." Edward paused, searching for the right words. "He was just...kind of lost."

She smirked a bit, turning to glance at the snowy window. "It's a little difficult to imagine Carlisle being lost."

_But then again, it really wasn't._

Edward scoffed affectionately. "If you can believe it, he was even more of a pushover then than he is now."

Esme didn't know whether to glare at Edward or smile in pity. "I can imagine that living alone for centuries would do that to a person."

Edward looked vaguely guilty. "Carlisle was always so sensitive about everything in the beginning. I think he just assumed I would want to leave him as soon as I could," he said with a light shrug. "He worried the same about you for while."

A gentle crushing sensation pressed upon Esme's heart. "He thought I would leave?" she asked timidly, almost dreading the answer.

"Carlisle thinks everyone is going to leave him," Edward said with a light smile. "So it's nothing personal."

Esme's fingers idly plucked at the flour sack on the counter as she pondered this, baffled. "Why would anyone ever want to leave him?"

"Ask the hundred or so people in his life who did," Edward replied darkly.

He gave her a significant look and moved to the side, his hands returning to organize the mess on the countertop.

"I can't even bear to think of that," Esme shuddered. "I've never felt pity more strongly for anyone than I do for him." She looked down at her hands, imagining how differently she would see them if they had never been held by another loving pair before in her life. She thought of Carlisle, staring down at his own two hands, unable to see their beauty or their strength because no one had shown him love before. "I can't imagine how it must have been for him, living all those years by himself. It must have been so painful... And he didn't deserve any of it."

Edward sighed heavily and shrugged. "Carlisle has come out of that darkness for the most part, Esme. A part of our past will always haunt each of us; we just learn to live with it. Carlisle once told me that every good day scratches out a bad day..." He gave a wry laugh. "Heh. A positive outlook indeed for such a troubled man."

As usual, Esme found herself coming to Carlisle's defense. "I think it's admirable. He wants to keep a positive face for us."

"You forget that I can read what's underneath it."

"But I _can't _read what's underneath it, Edward," she reminded him gently. "I realize that much of what Carlisle tells me is deliberately...well, rose-colored for my benefit. But his intentions are good. I understand why he does it."

"His faith in you is one thing that is _not _exaggerated for your benefit, Esme. He truly believes that you can conquer anything you perceive to be a personal weakness," Edward said resolutely.

Quietly thrilled by this confirmation, Esme murmured idly, "I never doubted his faith in me."

"Part of you did. And part of you still does," Edward reminded. "But I'm telling you now, Carlisle has never been untruthful with you since the incident. He's learned the hard way that hiding everything only ends up hurting us in the end."

"I know that now," she sighed. "Besides, I don't think I could ever fault him for anything he's done. He's too..._good._"

Edward mumbled incoherently, turning his face away from the light.

"You are fitting as his son, Edward. You know that. You are _both _good men. The best I've known, if I am being honest."

Edward smiled a bit bitterly. "You cannot compare me to Carlisle. I'll never be as 'good' as he is. Not really."

"Edward, how can you say that?"

"You don't look into everyone's mind, Esme. I see what's there in his head every day. All I know is that if my own were any purer, it would still not even come close to his."

"None of us can be perfect," she pointed out softly.

"Carlisle tries harder than anyone I know," he said with a wan sort of smile.

She spoke back to him with a quiver of emotion in her voice. "He wants to be the best that he can be...for you, I'd imagine."

After a pause, Edward spoke three very soft words that shocked her. "I envy him."

Somehow she managed to suppress her gasp.

Edward winced as he continued, "Not only for his control, but that _goodness_ that is so hard to find. Sometimes it infuriates me that I can't bring myself to be the same way. He's so hard to blame for anything, even when I firmly believe he's the offender. His intentions are always for the benefit of others, never for himself." Edward turned his eyes to her imploringly, as if pleading for her to help him in some way. His pitch dropped to an almost desperate whisper. "He's not the kind of man I'm supposed to envy."

"Edward." She licked her lips and stepped forward to carefully touch his arm. "I wonder sometimes if you misinterpret _envy _for _admiration. _It isn't a sin to admire a man and want to be like him. I think in your case, your fervor for success is particularly strong. You _want_ to be good. In any case, if you do envy a man, you envy him for his _goodness, _which is not a wrong thing to envy."

Edward sighed and Esme cringed at the tone of frustration that had slipped through. "You'll only ever know half the story," he countered. "I can't escape this. I can't conquer it. He doesn't know, and it kills me sometimes to think of it in his presence. If he only knew how I saw him...how would he react?"

"His respect for you would not change," she offered firmly.

"But neither would my sentiments of him," Edward pointed out darkly. "And he'll always be the same."

"You can't say that is a negative thing."

A ghostly smile found its way onto his face. "No," he whispered. "But you have to wonder how a man can live the way he does and never think he deserves anything in return for his actions. He doesn't even give it a second thought. He's just kind to everyone, sometimes for no reason at all."

"Do we really_ need _a reason to be kind?"

Edward smirked, and she felt a warm relief at the familiar look on his face. "Way to play Angel's Advocate, Esme."

She smiled up at him and caught the side of his face in her palm. "I love you, Edward, and even if you were bitter toward everyone for the rest of your days, it wouldn't stop me from caring about you. I'm learning from Carlisle as much I am learning from you. In a way, I do think we all balance one another out; I think each of us is as dependent on the next. As long as we keep having faith in one another, we won't ever need to worry about being the best. We're each _needed_, and I can't think of anything more fulfilling than having people who need me and care for me, who would suffer and sacrifice to protect me. You offering me that is the most selfless thing a person can do. In that sense, I'd say you have shown incredible kindness without precedent, Edward. Just as much as Carlisle has."

The utter appreciation shining in Edward's eyes was astoundingly beautiful a thing to see.

"I don't know if I can return to something as mundane as baking after a speech like that," he said somewhat breathlessly.

Esme giggled in relief, pulling half his lanky body into a firm embrace. "I'm sure you'll manage."

******-}0{-**

By the end of the evening, the entire kitchen had been dressed in flour and sugar, swiped clean, and destroyed again after every baking attempt. With Edward's loyal help, Esme had managed to successfully produce five of the twelve recipes to her liking. Five and half, if burnt bread could be counted as edible.

Edward congratulated her on her endeavors, but he did not fail to mention how pointless they were once the counter had already been covered in pastry dough.

But Esme had at least one purpose for baking this evening. She considered this simple revival of her human memories to be well worth the effort, even if every one of the pastries had to be tossed in the waste basket at the end of the night.

Edward humored her for as long as the light lasted, but once the night fell, he announced that his labor had expired. She tried to get him to stay a little longer, at least to help with frosting the cinnamon rolls. She laughed and told him if he stayed, she would let him add powdered sugar. But he seemed oddly too tired to carry on. His eyes grew distant and slightly distressed as he apologized hastily and left her to finish the rest on her own.

She expected to hear the piano soon after his departure, but he had gone into silence.

Once alone, Esme stood back to proudly survey the results of her work, golden brown and gloriously imperfect, lined on silver baking trays.

At the sound of the front door opening, she quickly jumped to clear away the mess before Carlisle could happen across her. Lord knows, he was bound to find her here. Any acceptably embarrassing situation would never pass by without his timely intrusion.

Sure enough, the very next door she heard opening was the one to the kitchen.

"What on earth are you up to now?" he asked. The sound of his fond, teasing voice was never more welcome or more dreaded at once.

She paused in the midst of her cleaning, not bothering to hide the dishcloth behind her. They stared at each other from across the room, the confusing ache of whether to laugh or simply smile evident between them.

"I've forgotten how to do many things, but surprisingly baking was not one of them," Esme said.

She smiled at him, her eyes glistening in the low light of the oil lamp on the counter.

Carlisle smiled bemusedly back, his lips parted slightly, seemingly in a state of mild shock from walking into such an unexpected scene. He could think of nothing to say.

Esme trailed her fingers over the flour-dusted counter, drawing unnamed shapes in the powder. "The spirit of the season just isn't complete without the scents of nutmeg...cinnamon..." she whispered reminiscently. "I suppose out of sheer nostalgia, I wanted to recreate what I missed most from my childhood."

An amiable smile bloomed on his lips as he stepped closer.

"You're very unpredictable, Esme." His voice was almost tender in the darkness, and an inappropriate warmth slipped through her middle at the sound.

"Sometimes that is _not_ a positive thing," she reminded hastily, casually swiping at the flour caked between her fingers with a wet rag.

"I meant it in a positive way, I assure you," he said in a low voice.

"Oh," she muttered, forcing a smile as she lifted her head. "Well, then thank you."

For the briefest instant, he seemed to be holding back laughter, but his face straightened quickly before she could be sure.

"So..." He cleared his throat, injecting beauty into the most awkward of sounds. "What precisely do you plan to do with all of these..." He gestured to the freshly baked mosaic on the countertop, at a loss for proper words.

It was her turn to feel awkward. "I was hoping you could take them to your patients, maybe?" She turned away quickly, pretending to clean her hands again in the sink while she mentally kicked herself for being so presumptuous.

"Esme, that's...that's so considerate of you," his voice was soft, touched. "I think that is a wonderful idea."

A breath of relief pulled through her, and she turned around slowly, rubbing her hands absently with the dry dishrag. He appeared a bit heartbroken now, though she couldn't guess why.

"You'd receive no credit for all your hard work, though," he murmured, and at once she understood the cause for his sympathy. "I'd have to say they were purchased in a bakery. No one knows that you live here."

"Why not tell everyone that you baked these yourself?" she suggested, half-teasingly.

He laughed softly, the most gorgeous sound she had yet to hear in a very long time. There was something reverent about his laughter in the dark. Her eyes closed as the reverberations touched her heart, the sound entirely worthy of savoring. "You know no one would believe me if I told them I spend time at home baking," he said.

She turned to him with both eyebrows raised in challenge. "How are you so sure no one would believe you?"

His eyes lowered fondly to the overstocked trays as he reached out with one finger to swipe away a stripe of flour from the countertop. "As far as anyone in the hospital is concerned, my talents are limited to the operating room."

_Oh, it was such a sadness that they did not know how untrue this was. _

Esme was forced to feign casualness again, bending to tuck the kitchen bowls back into their cabinets one by one. "Well, that's an appalling shame," she mumbled amid the clatters.

"I beg your pardon?" she heard him ask lightly.

Ignoring his request for her to repeat herself, she stood gracefully and tucked her hair behind her ear, pretending she hadn't heard him.

"I'll just have these wrapped up to keep them fresh until morning, and you can take them with you tomorrow," she said brightly.

He looked slightly crestfallen, but gave her a tight smile. "Thank you."

"Help me wrap them, will you?" she asked softly before he could turn and leave. Not that he looked like he was eager to go anywhere.

"Of course."

He walked around the counter towards the sink. Turned the faucet. Slipped both hands under the stream of water. The cold, clear liquid seemed eager to rush over his perfect hands. Almost shyly, he took a piece of soap from the basin and rubbed it gently between his palms until froth began to blossom between them. She watched intently as the sparkly suds gathered between his fingers, settling within the creases of his palms as he turned them over repeatedly. He swiped one hand against the other, chasing the tiny white bubbles away from his flawless skin until the water had washed them all away.

Esme quickly averted her eyes as if she had just seen something terribly indecent, somewhat astonished that she had to catch her breath from such an innocent sight.

He was only _washing his hands_. There was nothing remotely sinful about watching that.

But somehow she had a troublesome time believing this.

Shaking her head vehemently of these thoughts, she focused her concentration on the task set before her.

"Should I bother calling Edward to come help as well?" she asked half-jokingly.

Carlisle was quick to answer. "No, let's not bother him."

So they would be entirely alone. It sounded almost as if he _wanted _that.

Feeling foolish for thinking this, Esme neatly unrolled a sheet of brown paper and began to place the pastries one by one to fit the piece she had cut.

The rush of water stopped abruptly behind her with a tiny squeak of the faucet, and her fingers started to tingle as she listened to him drying his hands.

"Don't work too fast now, or I'll be of no help," he warned, a clear smile in his voice.

Again, it seemed like he was distinctly trying to prolong the time they spent in here. Though to Esme, this was more than baffling. Why slow down such a boring and meaningless task?

There was no real reason to slow down, but Esme found herself slowing the pace of her motions anyway.

"You can start with these ones." She dragged a piece of brown paper out and placed it before him on the counter. "Just like I'm doing, see?" She demonstrated by placing each item into neat rows of look-a-likes.

"Keep the ones that are similar with each other," she gently corrected before he could place a cranberry muffin next to the banana bread. His hand hovered unsurely for a moment before he parted the two and continued with like patterns.

It surprised her that such a seemingly simple task could be a challenge to someone as intelligent as Carlisle. Then again, it was taken in vain by someone who had little to no experience with edible goods in the recent century. Thankfully, he learned very quickly.

They carried on at a fixed pace for a while, until it could no longer evade Esme's notice that her fingers were getting very sticky. From this she could only gather that Carlisle's must have been, too. A brief fantasy of how they might struggle to share the sink afterward quickly entered and fled from her mind.

One by one the rolls and pastries vanished, neatly placed in flawless rows for wrapping **– **the process prolonged in human pace by two perfectionist vampires. It made no sense that they were going so slow. It was a waste of time, really. All they had to do was line everything up and cover them with paper. It could have been finished in a few seconds.

The surface of the counter was slowly clearing as the clutter disappeared, and with only a moment to prepare herself, Esme noticed there was one roll left. She reached out instinctively, hardly aware that Carlisle had sought to claim it at the same time. Their fingers collided above the innocent piece of bread, and with a mild jolt, the surgeon's hand retreated in the guise of politeness.

"Go on," he insisted apologetically. She looked up in time to catch his smile, and her heart fluttered guiltily as she took the last piece of bread for her collection.

"Have you counted yours?"

"Twenty," he replied immediately.

"Good," she confirmed, having counted the same amount. They were even.

Quietly, Esme began to fold the brown paper over the baked goods, expertly sealing the corners so that no air escaped. She could sense Carlisle's eyes on her every move as he tentatively copied her task for task with his own hands. She was briefly reminded of his hovering gaze while she had painted on canvas **– **the feeling of being his teacher, in however insignificant a way, was undeniably thrilling to her.

"That should do it," she sighed, seeing he had completed the task from the corner of her eye. "Thank you," she murmured, still avoiding his gaze for that extra second before the meeting became necessary.

A second really went by far too fast.

Quick and painless, she glanced up at his face, a smile firmly in place for her own benefit.

"Thank _you,_" he replied, predictably.

"I need to wash my hands…" She all but slurred her words, so terribly nervous to approach the sink now. Perhaps he would wait his turn until she had finished.

Carlisle looked down at his own hands and wrinkled his nose at the caramelized residue that clung to his fingers. "So do I."

Esme moved quickly to the sink to yank the faucet down. She buried her hands under the rushing water, hoping to finish before he could intrude.

"Don't you want this?" he asked softly from her side. She glanced down to see his strong white hand cradling a nugget of pale yellow soap.

She wondered if he noticed it was shaped, almost perfectly, like a heart.

In her mind, the scenario was twisted beautifully. He was handing her _his_ heart. He was asking her, _Don't you want this heart?_

Timidly, Esme's fingers reached for the soap heart, and without touching his hand in any way, she carefully lifted it from his palm.

"Thank you."

She hastily rubbed the soap between her hands, feeling the action to be most awkward while he watched her. His hand clutched the edge of the sink as he waited, his fingers drumming idly against the inside of the basin. They were still glistening. They still needed to be cleaned…

In a slight panic, Esme moved to the side, allowing Carlisle room to join her instead of blocking his way. Being so foolishly high-strung was only making the situation worse. There was no reason to panic. They were just washing their hands together. There was nothing remotely wrong about this.

So why did she have to keep reminding herself of that?

"Can I…?" he began hesitantly, reaching out for the soap she still held.

She practically jumped when his fingers prodded the back of her hand. "Oh! Sorry."

Again being sure not to touch him directly, she dropped the soap into his open palm.

By this point, she had to wonder if Carlisle was being intentionally cruel.

The way he handled that stupid soapy heart between his fingers – so _lovingly – _was absolutely disgraceful. Either he was torturing her on purpose, or she was simply mad. Perhaps everything he did only _looked_ indecently tender to her eyes because she was hopelessly smitten with his hands. Perhaps it was all in her head that the water ran faster when he opened his beckoning palms beneath the spout. Perhaps it was only her imagination that the piece of soap was slowly melting like a creamy damsel under each of his massaging fingers…

Esme squeezed her eyes shut as she braved the water again, moving her hands precariously within the sink as she trusted her own blind navigation to lead her away from any accidental contact.

But accidents were unavoidable.

Something smooth and warm made a slippery collision with her hand – the unmistakable flesh of the man who was struggling to share the sink. Her eyes shot open just in time to watch as Carlisle's hands retreated from the stream, taking immediate refuge in the dry dishrag on the counter.

Esme rinsed the remaining suds from her hands in relief and wasted no time before yanking the faucet down and off. Inside the sink, the innocently offensive heart of soap had sunk to the bottom, forgotten as the water slowly drained around it.

Funny how an act as simple as the washing of hands could take so much out of a person.

Esme stood still as she watched the water disappear down the drain, breathing heavily while Carlisle presumably finished drying his hands. From the corner of her eye, she saw him hold out the rag for her to take, and with one hand she blindly accepted it, cringing at the fragrant dampness that now enveloped her fingers.

Too kindhearted to leave the shrunken heart of soap alone at the bottom of the sink, the doctor reached inside to rescue it before it could be swallowed by the drain. Sighing sympathetically, he gently laid it to rest with its brothers and sisters in the soap dish.

"Are you laughing?" he asked, sounding mildly hurt.

Esme thought the question remarkably odd until she came to realize that she was indeed struggling against the soft suggestion of laughter.

Whether it was out of pure relief that the sink was no longer in use, or simply at the utter ridiculousness of the whole situation, she wasn't sure.

Confronted by his body as he turned to face her fully, Esme suppressed another shy giggle at the state of Carlisle's usually impeccable clothing. Knowing she had found a way to justify her laughter, she smiled.

"You have flour on your shirt," she pointed out, lifting a hand to brush the white powder from his dark sweater. She hadn't noticed he was still wearing his stethoscope until her fingers caught the metal piece in the midst of her distracted brushing.

Her finger lingered curiously on the instrument, noting that this was her first time touching it. This was not a milestone to be reached by any means, but somehow it felt awfully significant to her.

"Why do you wear this around the house?" Esme asked before she could stop herself.

His golden eyes flitted bashfully down to his chest. "It's…comfortable, in a way, I suppose," he admitted softly, reaching up to touch the end of the silver circle. "Sometimes I feel like a piece of me is missing if I'm not wearing it."

"No piece of you is missing, Carlisle," she sighed as she gently pressed the instrument back against his chest. "You don't need a stethoscope to prove that."

"I know," he sighed, smiling lightly. "But sometimes it feels nice to be reminded."

"You're a wonderful doctor, you know that," she assured quietly, her hand lingering on his heart. A little awkwardly, he opened his mouth to reply, but she spared him having to say anything. "But more than that, you're a wonderful person."

It was a recklessly intimate thing to say, but when she realized just how it sounded, it was already too late to take it back.

Then when she saw the way he was looking at her, she decided she didn't want to take it back.

Inside her chest, her heart was silently pleading _"Say more, say more..."_

So she did.

"I don't know if people tell you that very often." Her voice was laced with sympathy and concern. "…Do they?"

She was treading troubled waters.

Carlisle looked at once vastly uncomfortable yet slightly surprised and even...inspired. Slowly, achingly, he shook his head. His eyes glistened like sweet marmalade as the soft glow of the lamp played across his features. He fooled the shadows with every motion, and he pierced her heart with every blink.

"You can't possibly be surprised to hear it," she whispered in disbelief.

"Esme…" He began with her name, a hushed lullaby in the dark room. "Hearing that from you means more to me than if I were to hear it from a thousand people."

The sheer pressure of the smile that crossed her face was so delightfully impairing that for the moment she was too overcome with joy to be distracted by mere attraction. Carlisle meant these words. He meant them with all his heart.

Her words meant more to him than the words offered by a thousand others.

"Why?" she asked – confused, breathless, on the brink of gentle laughter, and still smiling foolishly.

"Because I know that you truly care for me."

Somewhere deep beneath her breast, Esme's heart burst into tiny pieces and poorly stitched itself back together.

Without a thought, she tossed her arms around his shoulders and pressed her face against his chest. Even with the stethoscope hard and cold against her cheek, she felt more comfortable, more welcome, more warm here than she had ever felt anywhere else. It felt amazing to embrace him without holding back. To simply and easily lunge forward and hold him close, to know that she was always welcome between his arms was intoxicating.

"I'm sure I'm not the only one," she whispered belatedly against his sweater, the remaining flecks of flour tickling her nose.

He held her tighter, and she lost all balance, but it didn't matter. He was holding her too tightly for her to fall.

"Thank you, Esme," he murmured over her head like a prayer. "Thank you for everything."

* * *

_**A/N: **__You can read Carlisle's journal entries from this chapter in __Behind Stained Glass__ - "Chapter 18: Shepherd or Sheep"_


	42. The Gifts Worth Giving

**Chapter 42:**

**The Gifts Worth Giving**

* * *

It was a revelation to Esme that Carlisle was as much an artist as she was.

He hid his passions well, with the exception of religion and medicine. These were his protective passions, his acceptable passions. What he kept beneath was enchanting to Esme, perhaps solely because it had taken an accidental intrusion to discover it. She had discovered this secret passion against his will_._

Somewhere in a vacant upstairs bedroom, the moonlit lake of his imagination dried in oil paints on her stolen canvas. Esme had wished to return to that room so many times to see how his hidden painting was coming along, but her fear that she would leave accidental evidence of her intrusion was too great.

Sometimes, though, the most enlightening intrusions happened all on their own.

Before Carlisle left for the hospital in the mornings, he would take long walks outside to reflect on peaceful things before the mayhem of the day ensued. Since the colder weather had taken over, he had spent less time outdoors and simply settled to make quiet rounds about the greenhouse before the sun rose. However, one particular morning he had made an exception.

Esme heard his footsteps, not on the cold tiles of the greenhouse below her bedroom, but on the crushed snow outside in the yard. She peeked out the window to see his shadowy figure walking toward the shed near the side of the house, holding what looked to be a sizable chunk of wood in his right hand.

Esme would never know what compelled her to follow Carlisle that morning. Perhaps because he had been following her around the house during the past few days, she felt a need to reverse the roles. She would play the sheep this morning, and Carlisle would be her unwitting shepherd.

Edward was struggling on the piano that morning, his fingers fumbling in a very uncharacteristic way as he experimented with Mozart's galloping chords. Esme swiftly passed by the music room to reach the back door, gathering her boots and Edward's winter jacket as she rushed to let herself outside.

She ignored the squeak of a startled mouse as it scurried away from her feet on the steps, huddling into Edward's coat as she followed Carlisle's broad footsteps through the dark gray morning snow. A gust of cold wind stung her nose, ice kissing ice in a most unpleasant exchange of false affection. The haunting golden glow of the lantern that hung by the shed was most inviting against a backdrop of dusky woods. Even more inviting was her assumption that Carlisle must have been inside.

Before Esme rounded the corner of the shed, she came to a stop, perplexed by the sounds of scraping and chipping wood. The sounds were rhythmic, practiced, and steady enough to create a substitute pulse for her dead heart. Holding Edward's coat more tightly around her body for protection, she slowly turned the corner of the shed.

A more ridiculously gorgeous sight she could not recall.

Carlisle _was _there, though not inside as she had suspected. He stood just within the widely open doors, his tall body bent slightly over a hardy block of wood she assumed had once been the stump of a tree. He had placed it on the surface of a workbench, so that he could study it from every angle before attempting to make something beautiful out of it.

The sight itself would not have been so jarring to Esme, if not for the way Carlisle looked in that moment. There was something so different, so intimate about seeing him this way. It struck her straight in her heart.

There were three whites that fought for dominance – the white of his skin, the white of his shirt, and the white of the snow around him. The white of his skin, on any other day, most likely would have won true. But in the warm wash of the lantern and the surrounding sea of blues and grays, his skin was never more human in its tone before. She could almost imagine the porcelain peach flush that spread from cheek to cheek at the slightest exertion as he worked. The shirt he wore was scandalously loose fitting, not even struggling to hide the artwork of a beautifully toned chest that hid beneath. Against the generous portion of his front that was free for her viewing, the tiny glint of his golden cross lay contentedly between the sides of his collar, the thin chain clinging faithfully to his strong neck.

And in his hands, his skilled doctor's hands, he held the carved wooden block upright and an unfamiliar, dangerous looking tool that he used to chafe away the splintered shell.

She could have simply asked him, _"What are you doing?" _She could have expressed rightful curiosity, coming across him in such a strange context. But Esme was speechless.

Carlisle looked up as he sensed her presence, his expression deliciously vulnerable, so much like a child who had been caught out of curfew. A curtain of cold wind blew across them, causing the floury fabric of his white shirt to shudder and soft strands of blond hair to dance around his forehead.

He looked, in that moment, like an angel who had fallen from heaven, struggling to make his living for one day of desperation on earth.

Esme could only imagine how her face had appeared as she looked at him – either horrified, surprised, or shining in adoration.

"Every year during Advent I carve something," he explained in his soft voice, handling the tool in his right hand for emphasis while he spoke. "It was a tradition my father kept in our church."

"The cross in your study?" she inquired without thinking.

Carlisle's hand paused above the wooden block, the muscles in his arm flinching as his eyes shot up to pierce hers in surprise.

"How do you know about that?" he asked, delicately stunned.

Esme froze in response to her own careless slip, recalling that the cross had in fact been carefully hidden behind the dustiest curtain in the corner of the room. She had only come across it in his absence while she had been searching his study from ceiling to floor. If she had been any less careful about placing things back where they belonged, it was likely he would have discovered this sooner.

But Carlisle's eyes as he awaited her answer were glinting with gentle challenge, as if he knew something she did not…as if he were completely aware of what she was trying to hide…

Could it have been possible that he had known of her breaking into his study during his absence? Would Edward have told him? Would Carlisle have measured the wicks of his candles and seen that they had been burned without his consent? Had her scent upon his belongings not had enough time to expire before he returned?

"Edward told me about the cross your father carved," she lied. Using clever context clues, she elaborated, "He said it was something you prefer to keep…hidden."

Carlisle's face was unreadable as his eyes fell to the wooden piece in his hands.

"I keep it hidden because it reminds me of a time I often wish to forget," he admitted, "not because of what it symbolizes. What it symbolizes is beautiful," he murmured, stroking the wood shavings away with his fingers.

"Maybe you should bring it out of hiding, then," she timidly suggested, suppressing a shiver when he lifted his head to the wind and stared to the distant woods.

His eyes closed for a moment as if considering her words, and she imagined that behind his eyes, Carlisle saw a world that was vastly different from the world around him. He was drinking in the aromas of pine and freshly fallen snow, and he was drowning in this one tiny moment of peace before his eyes would open, and he would return to reality, unchanged but not unaffected…

"Out of hiding," he whispered, his voice raspy with thought and wisdom. His eyelids lifted slowly before he bowed his head, a shadow of shame hanging over his face.

"I would like to see it sometime," she added gently.

He looked up then, a careworn furrow in his brow. "It is a very…personal piece to me."

A dreadful heat rose from her neck to her cheeks. "I understand," she whispered hastily, wishing she had not said anything.

"But I will show it to you," he decided softly. The clear reluctance in his tone was like a thorn through her side. "If that is what you wish."

She smiled in what she hoped was a kind and comforting way, not wishing to pressure him. "I would like that very much."

Saddened by the frown that still lingered on his sweet lips, Esme's shoulders slumped beneath her coat.

"You may not find it as fascinating as you think," Carlisle murmured, sounding a tad embarrassed.

Oh, if only he knew… Everything that held even a grain of meaning to him was worthy of her fascination.

"I'll never know until I've seen it," she told him in a gentle but bright voice, hoping to coax at least a hint of a smile from him. But she had no such luck. His eyes were still dimmed by sorrow as he dolefully continued scraping small shavings of wood from the now shapely block before him.

In a final attempt to redeem herself, she amended, "But you don't have to show me anything you do not want to."

"No," he said suddenly, surprising her. His hand rested on the table as he looked up to stare her squarely in the eye. "I _should_ show you more. You deserve to see more, to _know _more about me." His voice dropped to a whisper. "You deserve that."

A quiet intensity settled between them as they shared a heightened gaze. "You're hardly a stranger to me, Carlisle," Esme corrected in a hushed voice, "but I would not mind knowing you more…closely."

At this, he seemed most intrigued, his eyes plagued by clement terror at the prospect. Yet he would not look away from her, not even for a blink. The honest rise and fall of his chest beneath the inadequate white fabric drew her weak, weak eyes down to watch. And once her eyes were there, they were entranced. How lucky was that little golden cross that rode the waves of his every exquisite breath, that brushed the smoothness of his skin with every motion, that endured the nervous thump of a non-existent heartbeat as it lay, awaiting the gentle tickle of several fair blond hairs that peeked from beneath his gaping collar…

"Why did you come out here?" he questioned, twisting her distraction into immediate guilt.

Esme was not expecting the forward interrogation, so she stuttered a bit through her reply.

"I—I wondered why you were outside. It's so cold, Carlisle." She shivered to emphasize her point. "Why don't you do that inside?"

But he was already shaking his head. "My father always carved outside in the winter, no matter how cold it was." He smirked slightly. "He said it strengthened the soul."

Esme shuddered…and the frost could only wish to be the cause of her shuddering. Though she did not yet fully believe that a soul did indeed exist for all vampires, she could not suppress the thought that Carlisle's soul was the last on this earth which needed strengthening. Of course it was rather wonderful to think what would happen if he _did _seek to strengthen his soul…

Now _that _would have been worthy artwork.

"Can I at least bring you another lantern?" she offered, hoping to be helpful in some way. "The light seems somewhat insufficient out here."

He shook his head as he bowed intently over the unfinished piece on the table. "Thank you, but it won't be necessary. I'll be leaving for the hospital in ten minutes anyway."

"Oh," she muttered, her gaze drowning in the motions of his hands as he worked.

It was not like watching him handle those tiny vials during blood tests. Not like watching him wash his hands under the water in the kitchen sink. It was not that gentle, not that slow, not that careful. It was artful, definitive, decisive – quick and intense. Every cut he made in the wood was precisely where he had intended it to be. His hands were sure enough that she believed nothing was an accident. His skill was frightening, a born trait. This was not something he had learned or picked up from watching another. This was something he had been blessed with.

There was more force behind his hands here than Esme had ever seen before. She knew he was capable of using great force, but even in the hunt she had never seen Carlisle take advantage of the fullness of his strength as he did now. It was a virile act, with every swerve of his arm, every flick of his wrist – the motions he inflicted on that submissive piece of wood were unforgiving, yet loaded with something entirely tender. In everything he did, Carlisle could not eliminate that inexplicable tenderness from the work of his own two hands.

Esme noticed she was staring far too late.

He looked up from his captivating craftwork, eyes lifting gradually until they had crawled up her body to her face.

She chose that moment to catch her breath. "I'm sorry. Do you prefer to be alone when you're…"

What was the proper word? _Working? Carving? Making art? Doing disastrously wonderful things with your hands that I would not mind watching for days…?_

"No, no, I appreciate you coming out here," he reassured amiably as he straightened his back and politely rested the tool against his side. "Even if it was just out of curiosity," he added with a smile.

She shivered, and his eyebrows furrowed sympathetically. "But you should go back inside, Esme, this cold can't be pleasant for you."

"I don't mind it." It was partly a lie, of course. She did mind the cold, despite the fact that it could not harm her in any way; it was still not a pleasant sensation to be consumed by frosty air when she was already so cold to begin with.

He bit his lip in doubt, the hint of a sheepish smile forming on his face. The empty space inside her heart filled with delightful warmth.

"Esme?"

She cocked her head in acknowledgment.

"Go inside," he whispered, his lips boasting the smile he had stolen from an angel.

"Alright," she agreed in a hushed voice, backing slowly away from the site.

He was still smiling when she glanced back at him before she rounded the corner of the shed. The snow suddenly did not feel so cold at all. She could have easily stayed for a few more minutes.

But she could still be useful indoors.

The first place Esme stopped was the kitchen to grab the baked goods they had wrapped the night before. She carefully placed them all inside an empty flour sack and tied the string tightly.

The second place she visited was the foyer closet. She threw open the doors, tugged out his heaviest coat and scarf, and quickly polished the handle of his leather doctor's bag.

Glancing in the mirror for no reason at all, Esme straightened up and tried to prepare herself before Carlisle entered the door. She heard his footsteps coming nearer, but he was still just a little too quick for her.

The door swung open, along with a playful blast of wintry air that send her hair flying in an untidy disarray across her forehead. So much for fixing her hair in the mirror.

Carlisle smiled softly at her as he shut the door, seemingly unaware of the dismal state of her caramel locks. His eyes sparkled in affectionate amusement as he noticed she was holding his bag and coat already. With one strong hand he reached for the banister and started up the staircase, glancing back to tell her, "I'll be back down in a moment. I'm just going to change."

Esme nodded dumbly, still slightly winded from the speed at which everything seemed to be happening this morning.

She listened to the soft, taunting sounds of him changing shirts upstairs: the sigh of fresh cotton...the gentle snap of suspenders...the shy click of a belt being fastened...

Her breathing accelerated foolishly as his footsteps padded across the room above her, then a door opened and he appeared at the top of the stairs – again, too quickly.

The loose white shirt he had worn in the snow was replaced by one of midnight blue plaid, and a pair of black suspenders were taut on his shoulders. He hadn't bothered to cover them with a vest as he usually did for work, which Esme found odd, and even a bit improper.

He looked entirely unbothered by this as he shrugged on his lab coat and accepted the bag and overcoat from Esme's hands.

"Take care of yourself," she murmured without a thought.

Grateful golden eyes flickered to meet hers as he smiled at the strange parting remark.

She wanted to wince in embarrassment, but Carlisle only looked at her with complete kindness.

"Always," his gentle voice consented. "And you'd be well-advised to do the same," he nearly whispered, "won't you?"

Wordlessly, she nodded.

To complete her morning of being epically unprepared, Carlisle reached out to grasp Esme in an unannounced embrace. His hand found the middle of her back with ease as he wrapped one arm around her and pulled her closer. She had been slightly too stunned to return the gesture with equal strength, but just before he let go, she managed to clasp his shoulder briefly with one hand.

It was just enough.

"I'll see you when I come back," he whispered this time – right against her ear – the sort of whisper that belonged exclusively on the lips of a lover. He sounded so sure, yet so hopeful, it almost hurt her to hear it. Her ankles wavered slightly as she leaned into him, gathering as much of his scent as she could before he went away.

When they parted, he smiled once more and bid her _farewell_ as he rushed out the door with a flock of desperate snowflakes following him down the drive.

******-}0{-**

After discovering the doctor's secret passion for the art of sculpture, Esme was not so surprised to hear that Carlisle in fact kept a collection of hand-crafted figures in the wine cellar. Edward welcomed her down into the humble lair with a lantern in hand, assuring her that since Carlisle's secret was out, she may as well meet the rest of his creations.

It was astonishing to her that Carlisle had kept an abandoned studio underground for so long without her ever even knowing it. Esme suddenly felt incredibly intrusive as she peeked into the dark opening of the cellar, assaulted by the familiar scents of aromatic citrus and incense. Edward turned back to face her with an inviting tilt of his head, encouraging her to come in after him.

A different, rich aroma of aged wine wafted up through the cobwebby stairwell, drawing her in like a seductive spell. Esme slowly descended the stairs, shivering as her eyes wandered around the cramp room in utter awe.

Every surface and a good portion of the floor was covered in wooden sculptures not unlike the one Carlisle had been carving earlier that morning. Some were finished and others were still unborn, unfinished limbs of men and animals reaching from the wood as if begging to be pulled to life. Each barrel of wine was crowned with counsels of sculpted forms – some from stone, others from marble. The light from Edward's lantern fell on an ivory rendition of the three graces caught in a silent dance, their long flowing shawls frozen in an unending motion as they held one another's hands.

Without even sparing a glance of permission to Edward, Esme allowed her curious fingers to glide across every sculpted figure she passed, her breath shortening with every smooth face and featureless bust she touched. The details with which each had been rendered brought an ache to her heart and caused her eyes to swell with cold venom tears. Carlisle had been blessed with the hands of a demigod, for Esme could not believe that any man had the ability to create such beauty from stone and wood.

Naturally, countless religious figures dominated, from the place where a carved Christ sat at his last supper table with the twelve disciples, to a half-finished Virgin and child in the darkest corner of the room. But among these, there were also simple faces of strangers, perhaps distant relatives of whom the doctor had only vague memories. Perhaps some were the faces of his deceased patients, tributes to those who had passed on so that he would never truly need to let them go.

Esme's chest tightened as she noticed the wooden family of deer on the ground. A proud buck with slender antlers faced the dark while being followed by three gentle does and two timid fawns. The care with which each had been perfected showed clearly that their maker was aware of their beauty; that he could appreciate the life that resided in the animals he was forced to kill daily for survival.

Various tools had been left where he had last used them, lying in dusty crates and some carelessly discarded on the floor. Esme swore that several of these forgotten tools were in fact traditionally used in the operating room, and _not _in a sculptor's studio.

"I don't understand..." she whispered, heartbroken as her glossy eyes leapt from each stunning piece to the next. "Why would Carlisle hide all of this from me?"

"It's something very personal to him, I suppose," Edward justified soothingly. "In all fairness, he did not only try to hide it from you. He doesn't even speak to me about it." He turned to catch her eye with a significant expression. "He stopped doing it months ago... It was only this morning that he decided to make something new. He says it's tradition for Advent, but his inspiration came from _your_ passion for art."

Not caring if she made herself into a sentimental fool, Esme reached up to clutch her heart.

_I inspired him?_

Edward nodded, smiling.

"I won't tell him we were down here if you won't."

"I won't tell him," she promised.

"Good." He smiled. "We should leave before our scent lingers too much." He took her hand, tugging her gently toward the stairwell. "Come on."

Soon after this discovery, Esme learned that the shrine of sculptures in the wine cellar was not the only place where her faithful surgeon's artwork could be found.

Carlisle had carved an entire Nativity set of simple, almost abstract figurines from smooth gray wood. They were each about the size of a single finger, slim and somber looking – and she could see that the reminiscence of his artistic inspiration was consistent, having seen his painting as well. As an artist he was ripe and true to his talent. Modest though he may have been in the presence of others, it was clear that he was certainly not modest with himself when creativity struck him. The beauty of Carlisle's art was just like the beauty of his own _self _– pure but dark, pale but dim. If she could choose one word to describe his art, it would be "blue." Even if it was not blue in color, one simply read it as having the quality and tone and _feel _of blue. This, Esme supposed, was why the color suited him so well.

Edward sat on the carpet to show Esme this gift from his sire, his narrow knees pulled up to his chin as he settled before the coffee table where it had been set up. His long slender fingers weakly prodded the wooden Nativity dolls, and it looked as if he were studying them more with his eyes and his mind than his touch.

"Carlisle made it for me last Christmas," he spoke huskily.

Esme smiled softly as light, heartfelt thoughts of happiness flitted about inside her head. But Edward's grave expression did not change as he continued in a low, lethargic drawl, "Back when he first changed me...there were times when I felt so lonely, I would make them talk to one another."

She expected his sad revelation to be balanced by a typical crooked smile of some kind, but his lips did not even twitch. He looked disturbingly serious – troubled, even. It upset her so fiercely that her heart quivered with pity.

"Did you hear that the infant Christ was born in Bethlehem?" he whispered as he gently clutched the tallest of the three wise men. His whisper softened even further as he tilted the second wise man with his finger and spoke its response, "Come, we must bring him gifts to honor his birth."

His sweet golden eyes looked up at her then, like a child longing for company.

Like a good mother should, Esme settled down beside Edward and held him in a warm embrace, silently assuring him that he would never have to be lonely again.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "Christmas is...a difficult time for me."

"I understand," she whispered back.

"Carlisle tried to make it easier on me by giving me gifts like this," he said as his finger grazed the Virgin Mary's veil. "But I didn't have the heart to tell him that he only made it worse."

"You miss your parents during the holidays, don't you?" she asked forwardly.

Edward nodded, his head heavy.

Esme tucked her hand around the back of his neck and gently stroked his hair. "What do you remember about them?"

He surprised her by responding so willingly to her somewhat invasive question. "My mother was beautiful; her face is the most clear in my mind. She always wore a red dress on Christmas. And I remember her voice, when she called for me to come downstairs." His eyes grew wistful and distant as he bathed in the memories. "She always baked, the way you did... It reminded me of her the other night, in the kitchen," he explained, looking down in slight embarrassment. "That was why I left."

"I'm sorry."

"You didn't know," he said forgivingly. "It was just too painful for me to keep thinking of her."

"What was your father like?"

Edward's face scrunched in thought. "He was distant, I think. Not like my mother at all. But I always knew that he was proud of me. He looked at me in a certain way – different from the way he looked at anyone else. Like he was always saying in his mind, _'That's my son.'_"

"And you couldn't even read minds back then," Esme teased softly, relieved that the comment had coaxed a smile.

"Carlisle believes I carried my ability to 'read people' into this life," he told her.

She tilted her head back as she gazed at him, enlightened by the notion. "Is that why we have 'gifts'?"

"That's Carlisle's theory."

Esme stared into empty space with a pout. "I haven't discovered my 'gift' yet."

"Maybe I'll buy you one for Christmas," Edward chortled.

"Very funny."

"Well, if you could have any 'gift' what would it be?" he asked, sounding genuinely curious. "And don't say mind-reading, because trust me, you don't want it."

She giggled softly as she thought. "Hmmm." Her eyes traveled absently to the unlit candles on the mantle. "I think I would want to have the power to protect those I love from harm."

She did not even have to look at Edward to know he wore a genuine grin on his face. "I think you already have that power, Esme."

Smiling, she turned to look back at him, clutching his hand on the floor beside hers.

"I don't need a gift, Edward," she murmured sincerely. "I have you."

Though small, his smile had never before looked so rich with appreciation. "That you do."

And their hands congregated together inside the manger where the infant Christ had yet to be born.

******-}0{-**

When the doctor returned that evening, he had wasted no time before inviting Esme into his study. He had promised to show her his father's cross, and that was a promise he had been sure to keep.

Esme noticed that Carlisle had left the doors open as a prompt for Edward to enter at any time he wished, but the boy kept his distance. Esme suspected that Edward would rather pass on any scenario that might invite excessive religious confrontation. Since the Nativity incident, she supposed that any Christian artifact might cause him discomfort, especially if it was in some way connected to Carlisle.

Esme was surprised to find that she had preferred to be alone with Carlisle for this moment. It was not that she would have been opposed to Edward's presence, simply that she felt sufficiently prepared for time alone with Carlisle. That so rarely happened.

Her footsteps were nonetheless tentative as she followed him into the dimly lit room. The scents of smoke and incense were particularly strong as she neared the place where she knew the carved wooden cross lay in hiding.

Carlisle lingered hesitantly by the curtain in the corner of the room before he reached out with one slightly shaky hand and pulled back the thick velvet drape. Bending at the waist, he lifted the aged piece of artwork into his arms and placed it on his shoulder to carry. The image struck Esme as something vastly familiar.

Before she could recall where she had seen it before, he had slid it off his shoulder to prop it up against the window. The faint evening light behind it made a dull blue halo to surround the powerful shape, bestowing an even greater sense of reverence before it.

Esme was still as Carlisle stepped back to stand at her side, both staring at the symbol in thick silence. The room was so terribly quiet, she could hear the whispery flicker of each candle flame he had lit.

"How could you think I would not find this fascinating?" Esme asked as her eyes drank in the sight of the single wooden cross in the center of the window. "Carlisle...it's stunning."

He exhaled quietly. "You say that because of its age."

"No, not at all. I say that because of its...presence," she corrected sincerely. "You should keep it above the mantel," she suggested, turning to view the top of the fireplace. His head veered around to look in the same direction as she pointed. "Right beside the painting of the Madonna and child."

"Do you think so?" His voice was distressingly soft. Somehow, the tone was contagious.

"Why should it be kept in hiding?" she challenged as gently as possible, taking the moment to glance up at his face. But she could not settle for a simple glance.

Her gaze lingered indecently, dancing indulgently over his every feature – the exquisite lines of pity in his forehead, the reflections of the candles in his deep golden eyes...even the curve of his bottom lip somehow illustrated his compassion.

She rubbed his shoulder reassuringly before turning back to the window sill. "I think it looks very nice in the window as well."

Slowly, Carlisle turned around to consider the cross's current placement. "It's a bit cluttered over there already, don't you think?"

Around the cross on either side were a dozen or so small white sculptures she had not noticed before. They looked to be of different abstract forms, and some seemed to be suggestive of animal shapes, yet they were not much bigger than one of her hands.

Curiously, Esme stepped forward to pick one up and carefully turned it over in her hand. The one she held had clearly been carved to look like a swan.

"Tell me more about _your_ sculptures," she suggested to change the subject, hopefully to something lighter.

Carlisle suddenly looked very bashful. "Edward showed you the wine cellar didn't he?"

"I've never seen a more well-furnished room," Esme quipped with a surprisingly relaxed smile.

The doctor chuckled sheepishly.

"Where did you learn to make such exquisite artwork?" she pressed, stroking the neck of the small white swan in her hand.

He shrugged, shaking his head lightly in attempt to humble himself. "I used to watch my father as a child. I abandoned craftwork when I was in my twenties and then..." His voice drifted as his eyes darted to the desk. He took several steps forward, letting his hand slide across the edge as he neared her. "One day while walking on the shores of the Mediterranean, I picked up a piece of driftwood." Just as he reached the end of the desk, he bent over to open the bottom drawer. "I took it home with me and carved it into this..." From the drawer, he pulled out a dark, aged piece of wood that had been carved into the abstract figure of a dancing woman, with both arms raised gracefully above her head.

"I called her '_La Donna del Mare_,'" he whispered fondly, his voice laced with longing. "The maid of the sea..."

Esme reached out with careful fingers to touch the rough lines of the figure he presented to her. "She's beautiful," the artist in her marveled at the fine work. "Was she...someone you knew?" Esme forced out the words, hoping not to reveal a bitter note of jealousy.

"No, no," he sighed heavily, a worn smile crossing his lips. "Just a wayward wanderer of my imagination."

Strangely enough, this assurance made Esme wince slightly. It hurt deeply to think that Carlisle had imagined faceless, nameless women in his past. It hurt even more to think that Carlisle had entertained the desire for female companionship before she had even appeared in his life.

"After that I couldn't stop," he continued innocently from their conversation, cradling the driftwood damsel in his hands. "Many of the works you saw in the cellar are ages old. They've accumulated rather rapidly over time." A more lighthearted grin spread across his face as he looked down at Esme. "I look forward to the same being the case with your paintings."

Sheepishly, she tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear and shook her head. "Oh, I don't know about that."

"You'd be a fool to break the tradition, Esme," he said amiably. "You'll have your paintings, I shall have my sculptures, and our Edward shall have his masterpiece compositions. We'll scarcely be able to fit ourselves into one house."

She laughed appreciatively. "I've always dreamed of immersing myself in artwork."

Carlisle's eyes sparkled with the wisdom of his years, and before he had even spoken, Esme knew he was preparing to speak in philosophical tongues. "To immerse oneself in anything is often denied by the rest of the world."

How true this was.

"Don't you sometimes wish the rest of the world would disappear?" she asked before she could help herself.

The glimmer in his eyes was chilling.

"Ah...I know this fantasy," Carlisle humored, intrigued. "What you speak of is the eternal dimension. Escaping from the tangible existence. Socrates would consider this to be what lay beyond _the Cave_."

"Not allegorically," she corrected in a low voice, "...physically."

Esme's hands tightened subconsciously around the poor swan she still held as her breath grew uneven. Carlisle continued to stare at her as if he were searching for the answer in each separate feature of her face. His eyes became incredibly dark...unless this was only a trick of the light.

"Do you mean that the world would simply melt around us, leaving us behind...all alone?" He lifted a sympathetic eyebrow as he shifted closer to her.

Breathless, she responded, "Something like that."

An unexpected grin covered his lips as he replied affectionately, "Perhaps _we_ would be the ones to disappear _from_ the world..."

She bit down on her lip to keep a coy giggle from emerging. Something was telling her to seize the opportunity to keep this conversation going; that what they had was valuable, and could lead to wonderful things.

But Carlisle was the one to break the magic.

"You like this one?" He pointed to the small white sculpture of a swan she still held between her hands. She barely noticed she had been clutching it the entire time.

"Oh. Yes." As her grip on the sculpture tightened, bits of white chipped off of its wings and snowed onto the ground. Overcome by slight panic, Esme eased up on her grip, letting it sit loosely in her open palms. "I'm sorry, I seem to be—"

"It's all right," he assured hastily, "that's just a maquette. It's not a finished piece."

"A _maquette_?"

"What you might compare to a 'blueprint' or a 'primary sketch'. It is a model for the sculpture yet to be constructed. It's made of plaster, so it's still a bit soft." He reached forward to scrape away some of the white flakes, demonstrating that she had done no harm to the piece.

Esme turned curiously to the rest of the group sitting on the window sill. "Then none of these are finished?"

"No. They're just plans. I might not even bother to make some of them." He smiled.

"You have so many!" she exclaimed with a laugh.

"Oh, but this is nothing, Esme. The man who first invented the maquette had a whole room _full_ of them!" He said, suddenly very excited as they had come to discuss the eccentricities of sculpture. "All across the window sills, and on every shelf, and all over the floors..." She had never seen Carlisle being so loquacious before, his hands moving in gesture after gorgeous gesture, restless and animated. It was ever so enchanting a thing to see. It was beautiful and amusing...and perfect.

"That sounds so wonderful," she murmured half to herself, quiet enough that she would not interrupt the exquisite flow of his excitement.

It did indeed sound wonderful to have an entire house full of maquettes. But even more wonderful sounding was the doctor's gentle voice, rising in enthusiastic waves of intensity as he rambled on and on about art. She could have listened to this for days.

"I used to dream of doing the same," he confessed, almost breathless. "I would fill my entire home with sculptures of all sorts of things – everything imaginable – animals and people and buildings... And maybe then, I thought, I wouldn't feel so alone." His eyes were glassy as they passed from one maquette to the next. He stared at each with a specific fondness, as if they were separate faces with separate souls that must be recognized for their more intimate qualities. He stared at them as if they were people.

"You're not alone anymore," Esme interjected gently, watching as he turned to lay the driftwood dancer down on the desk. "You don't need sculptures covering every surface to fill the void."

"There _is_ no void any longer," he whispered surely as his eyes blazed into hers for the briefest of moments. He noticed her touching the wings of the soft white swan, and the corner of his mouth twitched up in amused joy. "Would you like to adopt it?"

"Oh, I couldn't." She shuddered slightly, bringing her hands forward to set it down on the desk. "You'll be needing it, won't you?"

Before Esme could place it down, Carlisle's hand slipped swiftly between the swan and the surface of the desk, pushing gently back to discourage her from letting it go.

"Trust me, I won't miss it," he insisted with a benevolent tilt of his head. He gave another push, patiently forcing it into her grip, and she was reminded of the time he had forced her to take her first case of oil paints so long ago. "Take it."

_Keep it, take it, have it. I'm giving it to you._ All he ever seemed to do was give, give, give. For Carlisle, every season was the season of giving. For any other person, it would have come to the point where every gift he gave meant nothing because he gave so often. But to Esme, each gift from Carlisle held more meaning than the last. It seemed that his gifts were slowly becoming more personal as time wore on. She was sure there was a pattern developing, somewhere just beneath the surface.

"You can…paint it," he suggested somewhat awkwardly into the silence.

"But it's already such a nice white color," she protested just for the sake of protesting.

"There _are_ black swans in the world, you know," a low voice from the doorway informed.

"Edward," Carlisle kindly acknowledged his son.

Edward's gaze skidded uncomfortably over the cross in the center of the window – though it was almost impossible to ignore, he did an awfully good job of dismissing its presence. Instead, his eyes took in the arrangement of plaster casts that filled the window sill on either side.

"I see the 'master of the maquettes' is reliving his glory days." At last his signature smirk had returned.

Carlisle discreetly slid the driftwood dancer into his desk drawer and closed it up. "I was just showing them to Esme..."

Anticipating that there would be an awkward gap of silence, Esme offered a brighter interruption to save them the agony. "Edward, do you carve at all?"

Edward's expression immediately grew devious. "Until Carlisle agrees to let me teach him a song on the piano, no."

Carlisle's face wore a strange expression that was both tender and defiant. "Well then, if I agree to this now, Edward, what would you say?"

Edward looked as though he were trying very hard not to appear surprised. "I'll think about it," he sighed. "Maybe for the new year. As a...gift." He had avoided any mention of Christmas – no doubt purposeful on his part. Esme suppressed a mild pang of sadness at this, but quickly recovered when she saw Carlisle's charming smile.

"You carve one maquette, and I shall learn one song on the piano," he reiterated to seal the deal. Edward looked pleased. Esme could not deny how entertaining she found their more brotherly antics to be.

"Then what should Esme have to do?" Edward asked, smiling crookedly as he turned to catch her in his gleaming eye.

With a wholesome smirk, Carlisle glanced back at Esme and decided, "She will just have to learn both."

* * *

_**A/N: **__As always, thank you to everyone reading. It means a lot to me that I have been blessed with some very faithful followers of my writing. Hearing your thoughts on the chapter never fails to make me smile. :)_

_You can read this entire chapter from Carlisle's POV in __**Behind Stained Glass,**__ "Chapter 19: Black Swans and Driftwood Dancers"._


	43. The Memory and the Music Box

**Chapter 43:**

**The Memory and the Music Box**

* * *

Carlisle and Edward's past together had been kept a mystery from Esme until recent times. Her unintentional intrusion on Edward's revisit to the holy manger had opened a window into what life had been like when it was just the two of them.

Carlisle had cared enough for his son to make and give him gifts, even when the newborn teenager had done nothing but privately curse his sire for giving him this life. It was as tragic as it was beautiful. They had come such a long way together, yet there was still something incomplete, some missing part that would make them each a little more whole. Carlisle and Edward _both _needed something – a very special gift that would renew their will to carry on together. But what could this something be?

Esme pondered the mystery to herself as she lay on her bed at night, feigning deep sleep because it made her feel more human. She had discovered a new way to lay herself down on the bed, with her head against the footboard and her feet against the headboard. The switch was strangely appealing. Something about laying down on that mattress in the proper way made her feel uneasy. It was too much like a _bed _when she laid the right way. She didn't like to think of it as a bed. It was just a place where she happened to rest her head for the night.

From here, Esme watched the snow fall outside her window, as the season danced into its most cherished time of year.

There was always something about the Yuletide season that disturbed Esme. It was not so much to do with the Christmas holiday as it was the feverish excitement that surrounded it. Somewhere in their misplaced enthusiasm, people had forgotten what Christmas was really about. Esme had ever been the one to enlighten the world, but the somewhat selfish eagerness of others during this time of year grew tiring and irksome to her.

She did not like the way there was such hype through the entire month of December, only to end in what was an often disappointing day that inevitably lost its preciousness as she grew older. She had hoped to reawaken some of that lost childlike wonder in her new life, but she feared that bringing her hopes up for nothing would have the opposite of its intended effect.

It went without being said that Carlisle celebrated the holiday, and perhaps even Edward did in his heart, but they were not very vocal about it unless she cared to mention it offhandedly, whether intentional or not.

Esme had not bothered to adorn the house in the spirit of the holiday season for many reasons. One being which, the mansion was far too extensive to have decorated every room, and secondly, she simply lacked the motivation.

A kind of contented darkness had fallen over her as the weather grew drearier still. She grew tired of the watercolor memories of her humanity as they jumped about like goldfish in a pond, reminders of the muted joy she had felt during Christmas as a child. The festive reds and greens were an awful clash, an odd couple indeed for complementary colors. She was sick of seeing red and green. She was sick of _red _altogether. It reminded her of blood... and...

_Charles... _

He had been red-haired. Her brain had suddenly slipped her a photographic flash of his face – the rectangular set of his wide jaw, the thin, discontented lips beneath the rusty stubble. The red hair. Above all, she remembered Charles having red hair.

Her _son _had red hair.

Long ago, Esme had recalled the memory of a ginger-haired baby who she could not keep from crying. He had been hers.

The realization was a painful one, but Esme had grown used to such pains, and they were now no longer intolerable. Her heart was numb when it came to these memories. They passed through her and left a smarting in their wake, but they would always depart if she bid them to.

How these memories crept up behind her without warning was the oddest thing. She wished they would leave her alone. She didn't _want _to remember her life. She was determined that her humanity would forever reside in the inventory of Doctor Cullen and nowhere else. He was her only tangible connection to her past life, her only proof that she had once been human.

And she would never be human again… So she _would_ not miss it.

She wouldn't miss the jeering schoolchildren, or the tiny orange kitten she watched drown in the creek behind her house, or the one spot of her bedroom carpet that forever smelled of spilled perfume, or the sound of her mother's voice calling her downstairs for breakfast.

She preferred to forget these things, but once they had resurfaced they were there forever, branded in her brain. Her life had been like a long nightmare that she only kept remembering more of the longer she stayed awake…and now she could never sleep it away. Carlisle had taken those gifts away from her and replaced them with new ones. Quite frankly, Esme sometimes wished he had not given her gifts at all. They made her feel spoiled and silly and selfish. But he kept on _giving _like it was some sort of sickness. Carlisle needed a doctor because he could not treat his own illness.

His habit of giving fine but useless belongings grew tiresome, and Esme had no way of insisting that he put an end to it. The money fluttered past her in tiny rivers of musty emerald paper, and landed in her bedroom in the form of dresses and jewelry and shoes and comfort. She knew Carlisle was fabricating the spirit of the holiday for her where she had failed to make it presentable. He was forcing the fineries upon her when she only wanted _him. _Raw and whole and holy. Just him. Doctor Carlisle Cullen.

Christmas eve arrived without fanfare, and like any other winter's day, Esme found herself standing outside in the front yard while Edward collected logs for the fire, surveying the façade of their mansion with a critical and pitying eye. The snow was still up to her knees, and her stockings were unpleasantly sodden from the depth. But Esme had a most wonderful image in her mind of the way this house could look after some tender loving care, and that was enough to warm her. She smiled sadly and cocked her head, wondering if maybe just a simple holly wreath would cheer up the doorway.

Edward chuckled grumpily from across the yard where he had started to cut the wood. "There will be no welcoming decorations on our door, Esme."

She bit her lip in chagrin, remembering that there would be no visitors to see any changes she made. And she _hoped _there would be no visitors. But there was always...

"Carlisle!" Edward called suddenly, punctuating her thought.

The doctor looked up in surprise as he made his way back to the house through the recently cleared walkway with his medical bag and a small, mysterious black box in tow.

"What took you so long?" Edward demanded. "_I_ ended up doing your chores for you, you see?" He raised the axe over his shoulder and waved it about pointedly, to which Carlisle responded with little more than an apologetic smile and a quickening pace toward the door.

"Esme, come inside, please," he ordered in a way that bordered being fatherly, and she half-expected him to add a concerned, _"Before you catch a cold."_

She wondered for a moment if she had been literally frozen to her place, but after a wry glance of confirmation from Edward, she trudged back up the veranda steps after the doctor.

Esme shook the snow from her skirts and removed her shoes, leaving them to occupy a corner on the foyer floor. She watched Carlisle hang up his coat and scarf through the mirror, and suddenly she realized how unpresentable a pair of wet stockings was while in his company.

He cleared his throat almost awkwardly, and she met his eyes in the mirror's reflection. "I'd like to show you something," he said, "if you have a moment."

Her stomach squirmed as it always did when she anticipated that they would have to be alone together for an indefinite period of time, and she pined desperately for an excuse to prolong the inevitable.

"Yes, I just...need to change out of these stockings first," she mumbled with a bashful glance at her legs.

His eyes dropped to her knees for the briefest of moments before he nodded in understanding. "Oh, of course."

Carlisle moved politely out of her way as she made for the staircase, and she tried to ignore the slow burn of his gaze as he watched her walk up, dripping ice cold water on the carpet.

Her head was in her hands the moment she was out of view, and she broke into a sprint for her bedroom, burying herself in her wardrobe as she stripped off every piece of clothing she had been wearing in exchange for something clean. She felt a particular temptation to wear something more formal, and as she whipped through the dresses, her eyes found the untouched figure of shapely blue fabric in the very back. She hastily pulled it out, taking no time to hold it experimentally against her body in the mirror.

It was a summery dress, light in weight and sky blue in color, with clouds of white lace across the hem and very short sleeves. Though it felt awkward wearing something so insubstantial on a winter's day, Esme quite liked the way it looked on her.

She turned around to check her reflection, slightly astonished that she had failed to notice how revealing the particular bust-line was. She tugged a bit on the tightened fabric with no help to its stubborn position and sighed.

Because Carlisle was waiting for her, she reasoned, she would just have to wear what she had chosen.

But Esme knew that was not the reason behind her reasoning.

Her hands smoothed her hair as she sailed down the stairs to where he waited for her, still holding that curious black box against his side.

She was not unaware of the place where his gaze was likely to linger – it had, after all, been the very reason she had selected this dress to wear. A prickle of guilt was her well-deserved gift as she looked up and noticed the doctor's eyes had made a gentle target of her chest. She should not have found this satisfying, but she couldn't help it.

Folding her hands agreeably in front of her, she pretended not to notice. "You wanted to show me something?"

Carlisle's eyes flicked to the box and back to her face, just as hasty as the motion could be without managing to look flustered. "Yes." He cleared his throat out of habit and began walking down the hallway. "Follow me."

Esme crinkled her brow in confusion as he led her into the sitting room and closed the door behind them. The curtains were all shut, and the room was disconcertingly dark for a moment before he turned on one lamp, motioning for her to sit down on the chaise.

She folded her legs comfortably as he remained standing, tapping the top of the black box thoughtfully with his fingers. "I know that we have rarely spoken about it before, but that night I came to your house in Columbus..."

Esme swallowed audibly and straightened her back, trying to look aloof when she was really very intrigued.

Carlisle noticed the change in her posture and expression, and there was a flinch in his stance, as if she had intimidated him. He looked almost...nervous.

"You don't remember much from that night, do you?" He sounded hurt, but she could hardly be cross with him when he knew nothing of her recent discontent with human memories.

"Only that there had been a storm, I had climbed a tree to watch it, and I fell." _And then you came and healed me..._

He looked down in deep thought, shoulders sinking slightly.

"Why do you ask?" she inquired gently, hoping to lighten his mysteriously anxious mood.

He stepped precariously closer, and before she could prepare herself, thick drapes of his scent closed around her at his approach. The cushion gave slightly beneath his weight as he seated himself beside her, the closeness of his body already testing her nerves. "You'll probably think me some sentimental fool, but..."

Carlisle lifted the lid of the black box, and reaching inside, he produced what looked to be a small, round music box.

He held it out with one hand, and Esme refused to believe he was in fact presenting to her…until he encouragingly moved his hand closer and said softly, "It's for you."

A strained little noise sounded from her throat, something between a sigh and a whimper, and she was sincerely sorry she could not think of anything to say as he lowered the gift into her limp hands.

It was surprisingly heavy for something so small, no doubt from the mechanism it housed by which to play music. Its rounded lid was like the inside of an oyster – a delicate, opalescent color that looked turquoise at one angle and lavender at the other. It was smooth to the touch, made of pale blue porcelain and circled by tiny silver waves and fish around the middle, which had been painted to resemble a pastel ocean floor. The base was dotted with tiny orange jewels to look like shells in the sand. It was a brilliantly enchanting piece of artwork.

"Oh, Carlisle... I don't know what to say." She knew there was a specific pair of words by which to express thanks, but she could not recall them at the given moment. "Why...?" she started breathlessly, to ask what had inspired him to buy her something that had obviously been custom-made and very expensive.

"It is a Christmas gift," he explained quietly as he moved slightly closer to her. "I'm sorry Edward and I don't...openly celebrate the holidays. I felt badly and I wanted to make up for it."

She looked up into his glowing eyes, genuinely thrilled. "Thank you... It's beautiful."

His eyes, if it were possible, brightened further at her words, and the smile that crossed his lips swiftly stole her stamina. One look at that smile and she was drained of all her integrity. She would have done anything for him when he smiled like that.

"You're very welcome."

Esme turned her attention back onto the box in her lap, silently searching with her fingers for the means to initiate the music.

Carlisle's breathy laughter warmed her cheeks as he kindly offered his hand. "Here..."

His two forefingers found the tiny knob on the underside of the box and carefully twisted it several times before placing it back into her hands.

"Open it," he whispered.

Esme involuntarily held her breath as she slowly raised the lid, and the delicate clinking chimes floated faintly from inside the box. The underside of the lid was painted like a cloudy blue sky, and inside the hollow of the box itself, a glossy blue disc meant to resemble a pool of water spun slowly in circles as the music played. Beneath it, tiny ceramic mermaids moved in the opposite direction, as if swimming under the water.

That song... She recognized it. A bittersweet, nameless melody about the sea. She knew only this much about it, but she could not recall the lyrics that belonged to the beautiful tune.

"Your housemaid had played it for you while I bandaged your leg," Carlisle recounted softly, "to take your mind off of the pain."

"Oh..." Esme touched the silvery engravings with a reverent fingertip as a strange, stabbing sadness tingled unpleasantly in her suddenly tight throat.

"She rewound it over and over again." He chuckled at the memory. "Perhaps she had been hinting for me to hasten my work."

Esme's hand floated up to rest against her heart as the song struck chords that filled the hollow between her ribs. The lack of a pulse beneath her palm was never before more frustrating.

"It isn't the same one...?" she asked, ready to be stricken if he had somehow acquired the original music box either before or after her death.

"No, no," Carlisle quickly amended with a modest laugh. "I had this made by an artisan in town. There had been no duplicates that matched the one in my memory, so I explained to him what it had looked like, and he offered to recreate it for a small sum. Of course, I helped him a bit with the carvings. I finished much of the outside myself." The melodious waves of his voice worked in gentle harmony with the dreamy chimes as they tapered slowly into silence.

Esme could feel the crawling caress of Carlisle's eyes across her face as the song drew to an unceremonious close, and she shivered.

"Esme... Have I upset you?" The crestfallen innocence of Carlisle's cottony voice put a wrench deep in her heart.

She weakly fought back the sobs that churned inside of her, struggling to keep her response steady. "I feel awful now that I can give you nothing in return."

She knew that if she had been brave enough to look up at him, he would have shown her that blistering half-smile of gentle disapproval.

The strong, unwavering pressure of one warm hand enveloped hers into a snug oblivion as he held her, not quite as tightly as he once had done before, but tight enough to show that he would be willing to protect her in even the most dire of circumstances. His thumb slid into the very middle of her palm, and upon finding the most sensitive of places in her hand, he began tracing tiny circles into her flesh.

"You've given me so very much, Esme," he insisted softly. "Very much that you aren't aware of."

She allowed her eyes to settle on the motions of his finger as she let the sincerity of his words sink in. Her stomach tightened lazily with every slow swirl he drew, and though she'd thought she would soon grow immune to the sensation he caused, the racy flutters only deepened as his thumb burned a tender circle in the center of her hand.

He breathed in steadily, and his words were more weighted when he continued speaking. "And if it is not too presumptuous, I do consider you...my family."

The circles melted into tentative strokes, back and forth, the soft pad of his thumb patiently erasing the chill from her skin.

"Family..." she breathed, slightly winded.

Family could have meant any number of things to Carlisle. How would she know if their unique implications of "family" were consistent in the face of intimacy?

"I must confess I've always found the word 'coven' to be...well, very _impersonal, _I suppose," Carlisle said with a wan smile. "It has no feeling to it. No depth. As if vampires should only be bound to one another for convenience and nothing more."

She looked at his eyes for a brief moment, nodding absently in agreement with whatever he was saying. If he were only a little more aware, he would have taken better care not to distract her with the unnecessarily pleasant motions of his fingers around her hand. As if reading her mind, his thumb suddenly stilled, slid a bit closer to her wrist, then pressed. Ever so gently. Begging her attention. Checking for a pulse that did not exist.

"Having a family has been my most fervent desire for as long as I can remember," he continued softly, tilting his head back to expose his eyes to the light of distant memories. "There had been a time when just the mere company of another was a gift to me. But now I desire far more than that. Edward has provided loyal companionship these past few years...but we've often felt incomplete."

Esme blinked, resistant to presume what he was truly telling her.

His eyes targeted hers once again, and she felt a fire prickle inside her heart.

"What do _you_ long for, more than anything else?"

It was a question he had asked her once before – a question she had answered very vaguely.

_"An answer to every question,"_ she had said, _"A reason for why I exist..."_

But time and trials had taught Esme the true longing of her heart. If she could not claim the glorious man before her, then there was but one other thing she wished for above all else.

"If you could have _one thing_ in this world, one thing that would bring you utter peace, what would it be?" he pressed, his eyes undeniable in their gushing curiosity.

He leaned closer, as if seeking the answer from her eyes before she could give it. Her throat quivered under his expectant gaze, and before she could stop them, the words poured forth.

"I want to be a mother," she breathed, trembling on the verge of tears that would never spill. This was a wildly intimate confession to make, most especially with Carlisle's piercing golden eyes gently digging into her. His expression grew despondent, his brow flexing in pity. He looked so beautiful when he shared her sadness. "I've wanted nothing more passionately since the day I lost my son," she finished, her voice catching on the final word.

Carlisle's fingers held even more tightly to Esme's hand as he stared at her, falling deeper and deeper into her gaze. He was still and quiet, somehow knowing more words were waiting to be said.

"I know that I cannot have that now, and it breaks my heart." Her voice was all but inaudible as she whispered the words, but there was no doubt in Esme's mind that Carlisle had heard her. His chest shuddered slightly as he exhaled, lifting three gentle fingers to tuck an errant tendril of hair behind her ear.

"That isn't true, Esme."

Her breath quieted as she considered the meaning in his low, luscious words.

Carlisle was unsettlingly quiet beside her before he spoke carefully, "You once asked me if I considered you to be a mother figure to Edward."

Her breath ceased at once.

"My answer to that would be yes... I do."

A thousand things flew through Esme's mind, all of which danced temptingly around the implication that a mother figure and a father figure could not coexist without being bound together in one specific way...

Carlisle continued before she could even tremble at the thought. "While that was not my intention in changing you by any means, I am pleased that things have turned out the way they have," he said, "and I know Edward is as well."

She gave him a half-hearted smile, not entirely sure whether he had wanted her to be happy that it was _not his intention _in changing her_. _Secretly, she wished it had been. She wished he had changed her for the sole purpose of making her a mother to his son. She wished Carlisle was not so hopelessly sensitive to her feelings on the matter. He should have just done what he wanted because he had the power to do it.

But Carlisle would never _dream _of abusing his power over her. Every day, their advantages over the other were dropping. Every day, their powers were becoming more balanced, more equal.

"I have never known the feeling of having a mother of my own," Carlisle continued huskily, his eyes worn with a tremendous sadness. "And I don't want Edward to live that way now."

Esme's heart stung with pity. "Neither do I."

"He won't have to." Carlisle smiled. "He has you."

Furious warmth filled her face from his words and everything they implied. This intimacy, as much as she had longed for it, was happening so deliriously fast. It was overwhelming to the point where she was forced to turn her eyes away in shyness.

Carlisle was plainly perturbed by her silence as she avoided his eyes, tracing her fingers distractedly over the music box in her lap.

He sighed. That breathless, slightly exhausted but exquisitely patient sigh. Like he was disappointed with the world, but was willing to right all its wrongs. That beautiful sigh that she wanted to hear over and over and kiss him every time he did it.

"I must be honest with you, Esme. Recently, I've found myself rather concerned about how you regard _me_." He was being serious now, and she could not have felt more threatened by the depth of his apprehension. "Sometimes I feel that you're uncomfortable with this familiarity...yet you seem melancholy when I then try to put distance between us."

She saw him shake his head slowly in the corner of her eye. He sounded unlawfully sad as he tilted his head down slightly, trying to find the gaze that she refused to give him. "Am I still only a man who was once your doctor? Because I would hope by now that we were...more to one another than that."

She raised her eyes and looked at him for a long moment, wondering how such a fascinating specimen had ever thought himself anything less than worthy of her approval. And here, with his precious honey eyes positively melting as he unwittingly confessed his desperate need for security, for family... it was too much for her.

Unable to shoo away the sobbing any longer, Esme succumbed to her emotions with a tremulous sigh of relief, shaking her head as she clutched tightly to the music box in her hands.

"Of course you're more to me than that, Carlisle," she whispered on the verge of incoherence. "You are...you always were..."

"Then why this distance between us?" he implored pityingly.

"I don't know. I don't know _why_." She pulled the music box possessively closer to her belly, closing the lid with a hopeless sigh.

"We're trying aren't we?" he asked softly, his breath teasing her forehead. "We're closer every day...aren't we?"

She nodded. Oh, yes they were closer... Even physically.

"Yes, we're...close."

"Are you happy this way?" he asked her, and upon the words that followed, his tone was tickled by joy. "Because I am."

She looked up at his face, smiling sadly, clutching the music box even tighter in her lap.

Oh, he was too handsome when he smiled that way. He was so...jubilant.

"I am," she agreed. "I am happy this way."

Carlisle looked down to the gift in Esme's lap with the shy remnants of his smile sparkling in his eyes and on his cheeks. "It's a bit distressing to think of how long it took for us to reach this point, isn't it?" he asked with a low chuckle that brought everything into glorious awareness.

She laughed softly with him, and the longing in her heart was almost relieved...

Her voice sunk into a lush whisper as she leaned closer to him. "Oh, Carlisle." She reached up and let her fingers ghost over his hard shoulder, longing for a more substantial touch, but knowing she must deny herself that for the sake of her own foolish heart.

He cocked his head, as if the angle would allow him to solve every mystery in her eyes. "You still seem sad," he noted, clearly hoping for her to prove this untrue.

But surprisingly, Esme found that she could not.

She gave a hesitant sigh. "I suppose I am...a little."

"Why?" The tone of his voice was the same as hers – just curious, just interested – as if they were discussing a perplexing puzzle together, but not so eager to solve it. Almost intrigued, but not let down.

She took a deep breath and attempted to answer the question, both for him and for herself.

"Well...because sometimes, I... Sometimes I'm afraid that I'll only end up losing this... Losing _you_."

It was not the only reason, and maybe he knew that. Maybe he was more aware than he let on. She didn't care.

Someday Edward would tell Carlisle the story of the silly girl from Columbus who only shied away from her wonderful doctor because she was afraid of loving someone who might never love her in return.

Carlisle slipped his arm soothingly around her back as her words sunk in. She was aware that he was shaking his head at what she had said, and he was probably smiling softly at the absurdity of it as well. The suggestion of his embrace was so tempting that Esme had no power over herself but to settle appreciatively into his arms.

"You'll never lose this, Esme," he promised, pacifying waves of fervor carrying his voice into her ears, into her heart. "You could stay here forever, and we would _never_ abandon you." He held her tighter, but his voice fell softer. "_I _would never abandon you."

Her head nestled greedily closer to his neck, burying her nose under his collar as she drowned in the sedative that was his scent. The sweet musk of centuries-old book pages, and the light clutch of antiseptic, and the seductive hum of citrus and cinnamon, all tingling with her every breath.

His hands slid downward, in a cascade of lingering pressure over the soft arc of her spine. At the small of her back, he securely linked those hands, in perhaps the most intimate gesture he had yet to impose upon her body, and gently gathered her closer to him.

The stirring in her stomach dropped to unmentionable depths.

"Think back on all that we've already been through together," Carlisle said, his chin settling with a secure and satisfying nudge against the top of her head. His voice was a soothing rasp in her ear, the reverberations of every word strumming against her through his chest. "Surely there is proof enough that we can withstand any tribulations we might face in times to come."

"How do we know that something won't separate us forever?" she murmured into his shoulder.

"Because as a family, we are bound together by love. And that is something you can never lose."

The trembling of her body ceased at the word she had been longing to hear grace Carlisle's lips since before she could remember. It mattered not that it was not in the context she so selfishly desired. But it was so much more than enough to hear it now. The unassuming, assuaging triumph in the way he said it made it feel like he was stroking her soul.

_Love. _

It was tangible from the liquid way he pronounced the "L" to the soft cut of teeth as he settled the "v".

This meant he loved her…as he loved Edward. As family.

To know she _had_ Carlisle's love was, surprisingly, not a revelation. But in all her days wishing for that strongest, fiercest, most passionate breed of love he could offer, this was just water beside wine. Nearly every being on the earth had Carlisle's love – in a sick way, even the ones he loathed with all his might – and while Esme could admit she was a more selective target, she still wanted more. Here, pressed into the firm, masculine haven of his body, it was only that much more impossible to accept anything less than the clouds in the sky.

"I missed you..." she whispered unthinkingly against his shoulder.

"I'm right here," he whispered back, the pitch of his voice distressingly gentle and reassuring.

"No... I missed you _every day of my life_, Carlisle."

The utter silence that followed this statement was somehow thrilling to Esme.

She thought she could hear the words _"How much?" _slipping like shy velvet between his lips. But they were so quiet that she had briskly passed them off as her imagination, and never answered the question.

"Do you know what I believe, Esme?" Carlisle whispered, low and deep, over her head. "You are the first person in my life who has truly understood what it means to be lonely the way I do. For that, I am irrevocably appreciative."

His hands on her back pulled her in closer until her lips were buried in his shoulder. "Promise me we won't ever have to be apart again," she murmured, grasping him tighter.

"I will promise this, Esme." His steady reply surprised her. "I ask only that you work just as hard to keep that promise for me as well." He breathed out shakily, his voice lower. "You must understand that I am just as vulnerable when it comes to being alone. Will you accept this as my weakness?"

Her head slowly rose from his shoulder. "Your weakness?"

His lips wore a bashful but accepting smile. "One of many, my dear."

Esme shook her head numbly. "You aren't weak, Carlisle," she countered, pressing one hand to the center of his chest for emphasis as she spoke. "I am weak. I'm…_unforgivably_ sensitive about absolutely everything."

His lips no longer smiled, but there was the light of a smile still shining in his eyes. "You are," he agreed, "_beautifully _sensitive, Esme." His passionate confirmation brought a new rush of heat to her face. "But sensitivity is not the same as weakness," he added in a whisper, trailing one bold finger across her chin.

"I am weak because I fear being parted from you and Edward. I could never live without you." She buried her face into his chest again, savoring the moment of shameless dependence. "Even when you were away for just a few days, I could barely breathe without you near me. I missed you so much..."

The strong pressure of his hands settled against her back as he sighed deeply. "I know."

Her fingers held just a little bit tighter to his sweater. "You can only imagine."

"I did not imagine your scent lingering in my study the day I returned."

_Her scent...?_

Then he _had _known of her trespassing... Why had he waited so long to tell her?

Esme's tight fingers instantly let up as she slowly raised her head, desperately pining for a proper excuse.

"I was... I just—I..."

But Carlisle was smiling, gloriously gentle, the flush of forgiveness warm in his eyes.

"You do not need to explain anything, Esme. Edward has confirmed my every curiosity. You sought my presence through that space...just as I sought yours through my writing." He shook his head slightly, in awe as he grasped her hand against his heart. "Our bond is growing stronger every day, Esme. This is what we both need. For so long I've wondered, that you could be the missing part of the family Edward and I have tried for so long to establish. Have you not felt it as well?"

She needed not even a moment to think before answering. "I felt it," she confirmed. "I felt it from the very beginning."

Her mind flashed to the moment when she first woke under Carlisle's vigilant gaze. She recalled the forces of destiny at work, even during those first hours she'd spent as an immortal with no will to live. He had held her back from imaginary cliffs, and whispered promise after promise to save her, and somehow she always ended up here, in his arms. This time with the will to live forever if it meant that she could save _him. _

"Then you know..." His voice caught in his throat as he spoke, and he sounded close to tears, though she saw no evidence of it in his steady gaze. "You know how deeply I care for you."

Esme nodded, unshed tears soaking behind her lashes. She let herself settle slowly, contentedly into Carlisle's open arms. Her head nestled below his chin, her hands firm against his chest. He was hers in every breath; every sheer, uninterrupted rhythm was hers to follow, his to give.

"Where do we go from here?" she asked.

Carlisle touched the music box between them with the tips of his strong ivory fingers and whispered one word against her hair. "Forward."

The contentment of being enveloped in another's arms was now quite familiar to Esme. But that did not make it any less exhilarating to feel. Carlisle was all around her – every little motion of his fingers, every hilted breath, every surge of warmth that shuddered through her body belonged to _him. _And through it all he only held her tighter, his protection as much a surrender as her willingness to sacrifice all power against him. Carlisle embraced as only a starved man could. The strength of his arms spoke not of a desire to imprison, but rather a desire to cling forever. There was a delicious conflict between his obvious need for _her_, and her implied dependence on him. To a distant witness, he would appear the protector, the nourisher, the caregiver. But only to the two who shared this exquisitely complicated embrace would his true needs be obvious. Esme had always been the true caregiver when Carlisle held her, and this was no secret anymore.

The clock struck midnight somewhere far off in the distant land of the surrounding room. Esme's head brushed against Carlisle's neck involuntarily, and the motion gave her a gentle scare – however slight, the gesture verged on being animalistic, and the way he responded only confirmed her fear.

A quiet, quivering purr pulled from his throat as his head mirrored the somewhat sensual nudge. The last faint strike of the clock brought Esme back to her senses, and before they could go any further, she attempted to extract herself from the embrace.

He tried to pull her back.

"I suppose I should retire for the evening now." Her voice was loaded with a telltale roughness, but Carlisle looked too distracted to care.

His lips came forward as if to form words, so tentative it ripped her heart from her chest.

"Good night," she murmured before he could speak, hating that it came forth sounding more like a question. But this was going to determine everything. Whether or not he followed her was the final test.

His arms dropped despondently from her body as she stood, little more than dead weight, now useless with no one to hold.

She did not dare look back. Pushing the heavy door aside, Esme slipped out into the hallway, about to raise one foot to the second stair when he stopped her with a frantic whisper. "Esme!"

Her face went aflame.

He _was _following her. Carlisle _had _followed her. And when she turned to look back at him, his eyes were painted by the most glorious colors of desperation, expressive yet meek.

"Must we be parted this night, or any night for that matter?" he asked, his accented voice laden with the strain of a hero in a stage romance. "I think it fair for you to know how dearly I miss your company in your absence." His brow furrowed in sadness. "Every room feels darker without you in it."

She gazed adoringly down at him, savoring how awkward but lovely it was to look _down _at him for once, and not up. But he was still so tall that it took just a tilt of her head to surrender her advantage.

"Oh, Carlisle... You can't mean that."

"You know there is truth in it," he whispered, his voice a deep tide that beat against the shoreline of her heart. "There were nights when we would do nothing but talk to each other until dawn. Whatever happened to those times, that closeness we once shared?"

There was a time when Esme had wondered that very same thing. But now she knew why.

They were each holding back from the other.

"No matter how close we may have been in the past, there was always something missing," she spoke gently, her face full of truth and pity. "We were never as close as you think."

She expected Carlisle to argue with her, but instead he seemed to consider her point. A look of profound thought strengthened his features as he raised his head diplomatically to speak.

"Perhaps we weren't. Perhaps there is something missing between us. But I wish to rectify that – no, I _vow_ to rectify that, beginning now." He placed his foot on the first step with soft but steady conviction, and the shudder carried through her from the stair beneath. No matter how vague the gesture, he was indeed advancing toward her, suggesting things to her, and no longer so shy about doing so. "I refuse to let you spend Christmas Eve alone, and I refuse to spend this evening without you." He extended his arm forward, opening his hand for her to take. "Please stay."

For a few burning moments, her hand hovered just above his, unable to submit to his tender offer. She could practically feel his ache radiating from his open palm as he reached for her, his eyes solemn and pleading. She twitched toward him, hesitating, and he parted his fingers a little bit wider, as if providing more room would entice her to place her hand in his.

"I..." She swallowed anxiously, trying to summon her words. "I will stay with you." The lines in his brow dispersed as he sighed in silent relief. "I only ask that I first have a minute to myself," she continued carefully. "I must collect my thoughts. It may not seem much to you, but I feel our conversation this evening deserves more attention from me, and I wish to be alone for that time. Just for a little while."

At first he looked saddened, then slightly confused…then at last his eyes were sparked by intrigue, his lip curling ever so timidly in faintest joy.

"Of course. I understand."

His hand was still open for her, and she blushed beneath her skin as she considered the temptation of taking it. He did not seem to realize that he was still reaching out for her…

"I will be back down," she said.

Finally he lowered his hand to his side. With a smile she noticed it strayed away from his hip this time. A bit awkwardly, he tucked his rejected hand behind his back instead, and oddly enough she burned to hold that hidden hand even more.

Knowing he was watching her with every step she took, Esme moved up the stairs slowly, prolonging the agony of Carlisle's constant vigil until he inevitably broke her concentration.

"But Esme?"

She turned to look down at him from the top of the staircase, feeling the power shift exquisitely between them. Despite being at a higher elevation, she did not feel the advantage was hers in the moment their eyes clamped onto each other.

"Nothing need change if you do not wish for it to change," he said softly.

"Oh, but I do," she assured; even with quiet words she hoped he could hear her passion. "I do wish for a change. That has been my wish for the longest time." The corner of her lip lifted in a meaningful half-smile. "I just never realized it until you said it."

He took in a quiet breath, on the edge of something, his face slack with sweet adoration as his fingers tightly gripped the banister. She thought for a thrilling instant that he was liable to burst up the stairs and crush her between his arms.

"Just a few minutes," she promised, patting the air with her hand as if to settle his tension. At her bidding, he seemed to relax. She watched in fascination as he eased his foot from the first step and allowed his hand to slide away from the banister.

Esme realized how dangerously close to a queen she now felt from her place at the top of the staircase. Carlisle seemed willing to obey even the slightest order she gave him.

With a significant amount of reluctance, she left him there with a look of puzzled brightness on his face. Her heart seemed to be throbbing impossibly as she ghosted through the hall to her bedroom, her mind churning with a thousand confused and mirthful thoughts.

When Esme returned to her room, she drew the curtains of the canopy and cocooned herself in the covers of her bed with her music box in her lap.

Some part of her wished for Carlisle to find her there, in her despondent little nest. He would open the doors in one of his unheralded entries, and walk across the deep blue carpet like it was water, and he would lift his arm and draw the curtains back, eyes gleaming like the tip of a golden blade, and...the fantasy could not be finished.

Esme settled deeper into her disoriented dreams, caressing the music box solemnly as if she could coax the melody forth, and somehow it would bring _him _forth as well.

Being closer to Carlisle was something she wished for every single day, yet it was not going to be an easy feat to overcome. Every step he advanced toward her only seemed to empower her shyness, both physical and emotional. This should not have been so difficult. As undeniably wonderful as it was, it should not have caused her that tiny hitch of pain when he entertained the suggestion of closeness.

She worried that this was more closely tied with her past than she had previously thought. Until now there had been no relation between her humanity and her immorality. But now Esme saw that she could not escape the influence of her past so easily. Because everything in life had taught her closeness was a curse. It was both disturbingly wonderful and disastrously easy to lose. To risk that loss with Carlisle again seemed a foolish gamble.

Yet Carlisle _wanted _this. He had made it more than abundantly clear in every nuanced gesture that evening. His gift, his embrace, his every expression. He was swelling with tenderness and his every breath was hopeful. He was so dependent on her permission and her acceptance.

She could not handle this position of power when he was the one at her bidding. It was too good to be true, too frightening to commit to for very long without falling. It would be a thrilling balancing act, but Carlisle was willing to try it with her.

He was, perhaps, very slightly insane.

Smiling through her exquisite confusion, Esme clutched her music box tighter and wondered if she were just as mad.

There was only one way to find out.

She was going to take that risk, so long as Carlisle would take it with her.

* * *

_**A/N:**__ Thank you for reading! Please review if you have a second, it would really make me happy. :)_

_To read about the original music box and more missing moments from the night of Esme and Carlisle's first encounter, visit __Behind Stained Glass__ - "Chapter 20: The Missing Memory". _

_You can also read this entire chapter from Carlisle's POV in __Behind Stained Glass __- "Chapter 21: To Carve a Place in Her Heart." _


	44. Hands in Harmony

**Chapter 44:**

**Hands in Harmony**

* * *

_Just one more minute_...

The stairs were waiting. _He _was waiting.

But she was prolonging it.

Her clock chastised her with a few more impatient ticks, but Esme ignored them just as she ignored the ache in her heart to be beside Carlisle again.

Her fingers twitched toward the tiny knob beneath the music box to turn it for one last round, but before she could bring the tune back to life, her ears were touched by another enchanting song, floating dreamlike up from the music room.

She smiled to herself as the comforting trance of piano keys glittered from below. Edward's music never failed to bring a profound peace to her heart. The song he played for her tonight was unnamed and unfamiliar, but it was perhaps the most solemnly beautiful piece she had yet to hear from him.

Laying her head back onto her pillow, Esme closed her eyes and allowed the music to lull her emotions from the evening. She was thoroughly lost in the flow of the harmonious notes when suddenly they came to an abrupt halt. Edward's hands had slipped away from the song before it was finished.

Narrowing her eyes in confusion, Esme sat up and listened for him to continue. But it was clearly not the same pair of hands that had next claimed the keys.

These hands were not as sure as they touched the notes, not as effortless in their endeavor to bring forth beautiful music. They were not practiced, but they were certainly motivated. They were not slow, but they were most definitely hesitant.

They were the hands of a surgeon.

Esme bolted from her bedroom, heading down the stairs in a flash of movement. This was a scene she was not bound to miss.

Taking care not to intrude on their moment alone, Esme hovered behind the halfway open door to the music room to watch the precious scene.

It was strange to see Carlisle seated directly behind the piano, with all eighty-eight keys beneath his command. Edward had seated himself in a chair close beside his father so that he could easily demonstrate the proper placement of hands and point things out without becoming a hindrance.

Esme had always been able to tell that Edward loved playing the role of a teacher. He had so many talents to share; it seemed a natural calling for the boy. She was only disappointed it had taken so long for him to make Carlisle his pupil.

And Esme knew she would be next.

She doubted that beginner's luck would be as easy to collect with piano playing as it had been with archery.

As Carlisle's hands slowly familiarized themselves with the keys, Edward turned to regard Esme where she leaned precariously in the doorway. He mouthed the words 'Come over here,' with his kindest smile, and she was helpless to refuse his invitation.

"I didn't want to disturb you," she said softly, sorry that her words had put an abrupt end to Carlisle's playing.

Carlisle did not seem startled as he looked up at her, but he did seem a tad embarrassed. "It's no disturbance," the doctor said. "I was just taking advantage of dear Edward's Christmas gift," he added with a slightly impish smile.

Esme grinned as she turned to inquire Edward's approval. "So how is he, Maestro?"

Edward shrugged one shoulder and smirked. "He's no _Amadeus_, but he's not a disaster either."

Carlisle chuckled, his eyes never leaving their merciless spot on Esme's face. Even if it was only for a brief moment, she felt the weight of their intimate conversation from before lingering in their joined gaze.

Edward's eyes passed discreetly between the pair for a moment before he stood up from his chair to leaf through a stack of sheet music. "Esme, why don't you, ah, sit down and I'll teach you both to play something."

"It's fine, Edward. I'll wait until you two are finished." She sighed. "I wouldn't want to make things frustrating for you..."

"I did agree to teach _you_ as well, Esme. I could kill two birds with one stone, you see?" Edward patted the edge of the bench, mere inches away from where Carlisle sat. He was asking her to share the bench with the doctor... "Come sit down."

A wicked sparkle shone in the boy's eye as he smiled invitingly.

_Why are you doing this to me, Edward? _

But Esme's pleading thoughts were useless.

Down she went, placing herself obediently on the bench at Carlisle's side. They did not touch, but they were close enough to brush elbows if they so chose.

"I have an idea," Edward began brightly. "Why don't I teach you both to play a duet?"

"Do you really think that's the best idea for two people who are just starting out, Edward?" Carlisle asked doubtfully.

"Of course it is. The best way to learn the subtleties of timing is to play along with another person."

Esme sheepishly admitted, "Then I think it's only fair to warn you both now. I've never had the best timing in the world."

"That's what I'm here for." Edward smirked proudly. "Besides I've played these duets by _myself._ I'm sure they'll be easy as pie for you two."

"I thought we agreed to learn only _one _song, son," Carlisle interjected.

"We agreed to one song _per person._ And since Esme is here now, I think it makes sense if you both learn _two _duets."

Esme noticed Carlisle's jaw tense slightly as he turned to exchange a hassled glance with her.

It took no more than that shared look for Edward to change his mind. "Fine. One duet for the both of you," he huffed, shooing them both to the side as he took his place on the bench. "Pay attention now because I'm only going to play it for you once."

Edward paused for a moment, assembling his fingers over the correct starting keys before he dove into the melody with expert finesse. The song was obviously much more complicated than he had made it out to be; it was not at all intended for a beginner, yet Edward had chosen it for perhaps that very purpose. He _wanted_ this to be difficult for them.

He wanted to challenge them. In more than one way.

"See? I told you. It's so simple a child could learn it."

Several ungrateful crickets chirped in the silence of Esme's mind. Even Carlisle appeared a little stunned.

"Erm…"

"Alright, now." Edward stood back, placing a critical finger to his chin as he studied each of his terrified students in thought. "Which of you should be on top?"

"I...beg your pardon?" Carlisle choked lightly, trying in vain not to draw any more attention to the awkwardness of Edward's obviously intentional wording.

"One of you has to play the top part and the other has to play the bottom," Edward explained as if he were talking to a particularly dim child. "You saw how I played the top with my right hand and the bottom with my left?"

"Oh, of course." Carlisle's immense relief at this clarification would have been comical had Esme not been just as flustered. "I suppose we should let Esme choose..."

Esme carefully withdrew her eyes before Carlisle's gaze could drift to meet hers.

"Top or bottom, Esme?" Edward asked cheekily. Esme knew that if Carlisle had been looking the other way, Edward's eyebrows would have been wagging at her as well.

She glared at him forcefully before politely stating her preference. "I'll take the _right-handed_ part, thank you."

"Okay, Esme wants to be on top. Switch sides," Edward ordered with a triumphant smile.

It was quite clear he was trying desperately not to laugh. She was surprised he hadn't burst yet.

Esme made sure to nudge Edward into the side of the piano as she passed him, settling herself on the opposite side from where she had previously sat. Another heavy body settled to her left with a low sigh. She tried not to become fixated on precisely how little distance there now was between them.

Edward leaned one elbow onto the piano as he began his instruction. "Now the idea behind a duet is to compromise. When you're playing with another person it can be tricky to keep time. It requires a lot of..." He smiled. "...well, trust."

Esme hoped her instinctive gulp had gone unnoticed by the other vampires in the room.

"Carlisle, since you're playing as the left hand, your job is to support the notes Esme plays as the right hand," Edward continued smartly. "You must keep the correct tempo or else you'll throw her off, and the whole song will be ruined."

From the corner of her eye, Esme saw Carlisle cross his arms.

"Come now, Edward," she interrupted, shamelessly adopting her motherly role to put him in place.

"Oh, but I'm getting ahead of myself." Edward shook his head, a very unapologetic smile in place. "Just try to play the first staff like I did."

He took a step back so that he could observe, his eyes dark as he peered through the open lid of the piano.

Esme watched anxiously as Carlisle brought his hands dutifully to their proper place on the keys. Knowing she was expected to do the same, she resisted for a long moment, hoping her fingers would cease their trembling before she had to bring them out of hiding.

She tentatively slipped her hands out from under her thighs, devastated to notice that her trembling had worsened now that her fingers were in view.

"Don't be nervous, Esme." Edward made a poor attempt at comforting her. "It's only your first try. I'll understand if you make a disaster of it," he said with a cheery smile.

"Edward," Carlisle chided with an exasperated sigh.

Edward looked anything but repentant. "Sorry. Go on."

One would think with a perfect memory it would be simple to repeat a song on the piano after having just seen and heard it being played without a hitch. But the only true advantage to having a flawless memory was that she remembered what notes to hit in what order. Timing, however, was another story. Timing still required ample practice, and more notably, patience.

As Carlisle's hands began to move along the keys, Esme tried to focus on how to keep up with him when he picked up his pace, and how not to drag when he slowed down. They had both perfectly recalled which notes to press, but somehow they were not always in ideal harmony. As if this were not frustrating enough, Esme's concentration was epically agitated by the fact that she now shared a very small span of keys with her doctor's tempting hands. The song was structured in a way that neither of their hands had to touch at any point...but they came awfully close.

Her composure sufficiently ruined, Esme pulled her hands away as soon as she found a break in the song that would allow for it. Her throat tightened around her apology so that she was left speechless, smarting with the humiliation of having abandoned Carlisle in a state of fine confusion.

What Edward had to say only worsened her mood. "I must say, I'm very disappointed in my pupils." It was difficult to tell if he was being serious or teasing.

Carlisle attempted an earnest defense. "I thought we did fine for our first try—"

"If you're just going to argue with everything I say, I'm not going to bother keeping up a patient facade for much longer," Edward warned curtly.

Disapproving of his son's petulance, Carlisle resorted to gentle sarcasm. "Ah, so this is you being _patient_, is it?" A well-timed slip of his accent only enhanced the effect.

"That's it." Edward gave in with a heavy sigh, lifting a load of music books up into his arms. "I'm so underappreciated in this household," he mumbled as he headed for the door.

Esme perked up to protest, but she could have sworn she saw him smiling just before he turned to shut the door behind him...

"He's just being temperamental," Carlisle assured her with a shy grin.

Esme was still dumbfounded. "I don't know what could have possibly made him so upset."

Carlisle just shrugged, looking vaguely intrigued by something she had obviously missed. "You know Edward."

"We didn't do _that_ badly... Did we?" she asked in a small voice.

"No," he immediately quelled her concern with a charming smile. "You did wonderfully."

She noticed with some perplexity that he had only mentioned _her _having done a wonderful job. To escape the unnecessary flattery, she tore her gaze away and shyly plucked at the ruffles on the cuff of her sleeve.

"Maybe we should practice it more...for when Edward comes back," she suggested, trying not to sound too hopeful.

Carlisle smiled somewhat slyly, as if she had said exactly what he'd wanted to hear. "I doubt it will do much good, but I suppose it couldn't hurt."

Esme's hands crept onto the keys carefully, as if each slender bar of ivory were asleep and she was trying not to wake them.

"Should we just…?" She paused and looked up Carlisle questioningly, not planning to move until she was certain he was going to join her.

His smile widened just a bit, most likely gathering humor from her timidity. The expression on his face in that moment was atrociously handsome – something disturbingly dashing about the way his blond hair had wilted slightly about his forehead, something stirring about the hasty flicker of dimples in his cheeks. Esme feared she may have gasped out loud at the sight.

"Yes, go on," he murmured.

And with his permission, she began to play. He waited several notes before joining her, and as his hands assumed their supporting role, Esme's heart came screaming back to life beneath her breast.

The keys suddenly felt very heavy as she pressed them, her attention wavering every time his fingers fluttered past hers. She was so painfully aware of his every move, so alert to every delightfully deep note he brought to life beneath his strong surgeon's fingers.

This could not have been his first time playing a duet. It just came far too naturally for him.

Feeling dangerously dizzy, Esme let her concentration waver for a moment too long, resulting in a sour slip of several notes that had no place in the beautiful song. Her face seared in embarrassment as her ears stung with the horrid sound.

"Oh, dear." Esme withdrew her hands, flustered, leaving Carlisle to abruptly end the chord. She lifted her fingers to her lip in chagrin. "That was awful. I'm so sorry...I don't know what happened."

"It's quite alright," he assured her with a forgiving chuckle. Her eyes drifted reluctantly up to his face but found no hints of patronization in his eyes. He was so kind, so gentle.

"I'm a failure at piano," Esme mourned with a self-deprecating swish of her hand through her hair.

She was convinced that only Carlisle could manage to make laughter sound sympathetic. "Nonsense," he said with a shake of his head. "You've only tried it twice yet. More practice will help."

"How did you manage to become so good at it?" she demanded.

His expression was touched by embarrassment as he looked down to study his fingers. "I would hardly call myself good, but Edward's perpetual boredom over the years often resulted in useless attempts to make me play."

She giggled. "But you've never tried to learn a full song before?"

He shrugged. "I've always lost my patience."

Esme cocked her head curiously. "That seems very unlike you," she noted.

Carlisle paused, the look on his face suggesting he was trying to contain a smile. "Music may just not be my forte."

She frowned. "It isn't mine either."

He grinned more fully at her sullen confirmation. "Well now, that's what we're here for, isn't it?"

Esme sighed, her eyes sweeping longingly over the piano keys. "It's still daunting, though."

He made a tiny noise of disagreement in his throat. "It doesn't have to be."

She stared up at him in doubt.

An idea seemed to spark in his head at her questioning look, and before she could say anything, he interrupted. "Might I suggest you try it like this?"

Nudging her hand slightly to make room for both of his, Carlisle carried out the right-handed part slowly but flawlessly so that she could follow along with her eyes. When he was playing it, the song somehow sounded more fixed, more neat and tidy rather than disorganized and haphazard.

The moment he pulled his hands away, Esme crossed her arms over her chest. "Maybe _you_ should play the right hand."

He laughed again. "That's not fair, now. You've committed to this, now you're going to learn it."

She sighed in surrender as he shifted next to her, his arms coming up quite unexpectedly around either side of her. From there he clasped both her hands and settled them to his liking on the proper keys.

"Just try it… nice and slow."

To the very best of her ability, Esme repeated the notes that Carlisle had just played for her. Her memory was an asset, but it did not eliminate mistake entirely. Something in the way she was playing still sounded askew.

"Why does it still sound wrong?" she moaned hopelessly as she yanked her fingers away from the piano.

Carlisle awkwardly rubbed his wrists as he fished for an appropriate way to tell her. "Forgive me, Esme, but I believe it's your timing," he said gently. "It's just a bit off."

"Oh, I tried to warn him!" She shook her head vehemently. "I'm just not very in tune with things like timing and tempo and whatnot." She tried to dismiss her weakness casually, thinking Carlisle might forgive her and suggest that they simply call it quits for the evening.

But he didn't. Instead, Carlisle shifted on the bench so that he was even closer – so close, that their hips now touched where they sat. As if this were not unexpected enough, he then did something quite nearly unthinkable.

Reaching down between them, Carlisle found a good grip on Esme's ankle and placed her foot to rest limply on his own. She could scarcely believe what she had just seen him do, and it was only when the naked sole of her foot met with the cool black leather of his shoe that she realized it had not all been in her imagination.

"What are you doing?" she asked, gasping as he adjusted the position of her foot with his hands. She had to fight to keep from laughing wildly at the ticklish sensation. But it was too late – a few giggles had already broken free.

Smiling at his own brilliance, Carlisle replied, "Helping you keep correct timing."

"How is _this _going to help with my timing?" she asked, still giggling breathlessly as Carlisle shifted his leg the slightest bit.

"I'm going to keep time for us both." His proud smile blossomed into a fantastically amused grin. "Keep your foot on mine while we play, and you'll have no trouble matching my tempo."

"I won't be able to stop laughing!" she resisted between giddy cackles.

She could tell that he was trying desperately to remain civilized, but it was fairly useless when he was already laughing rather robustly himself.

"Come on, now."

Her hands went delightfully limp as he placed them just so on the proper keys. Her laughter was calmed by the heartbreaking way he handled each of her fingers, touching them as if they were the fingers of a breakable glass doll. She was reminded of the day he'd taught her how to hold the bow and arrow, as he placed each finger in its rightful perch on the separate keys. As she watched him, her laughter slowly subsided, leaving her with nothing but a residual quiver that gently ravished her entire body. The nerves spiraling down her wrists were uncontrollable, as were the frustratingly fitful flutters that punished her belly with every purposeful touch of his fingers.

"Ready?" he whispered.

After a full breath, she nodded.

His hands let go of hers and took their place beside her on the keys.

Tentatively, Esme began to play her given part, her fingers following the now familiar order of notes with relative ease. She watched from the corner of her eye as Carlisle's fingers began to move along with hers, and from the moment he broke in, the fullness of the song was overwhelming. This time it sounded different, more secure somehow. And she realized her timing was no longer lost.

Beneath the piano, she could feel his foot keeping the tempo, even and succinct, lifting her own foot with every count. As amusing as she found the repetitive motion, she was smiling because of an entirely different feeling – the feeling of making music with the man she loved.

There was such unbearable beauty in sharing the instrument, both of them coaxing slightly different sounds, the delightful contrast between the deeper and brighter notes. At the same time, it was thrilling – each of their hands was responsible for a series of notes, and if just one happened to slip, the other would be lost. Suddenly Esme understood what Edward had described in the delicacy of the duet.

And now both she and Carlisle were making music together. Beautiful, pure, effortless music. Their hands were working in perfect harmony.

She hoped Edward had heard their song from wherever he was hiding.

Ever so naturally, their hands drew the song to its end, with such ease it felt as though they had been playing this duet since the beginning of time. The hollow echo of the last chord lingered in the strings until their fingers slowed into stillness. As the fulfilling wave of silence curled around them, Esme looked up at Carlisle in awe. "That was—"

"—Nearly flawless, I think," he supplied with a grin.

She smiled brightly, and gave his foot a teasing nudge where they still touched beneath the bench. "Who would have thought something so silly could be such a big help?"

The door to the music room opened promptly. "Certainly not _me_."

"Oh, did you hear us, Edward?" Esme could hardly contain her excitement when she saw the impressed look on his face. "Even you have to admit we did well for our first try!"

He gave Carlisle a significant look. "Yes, you did well." A knowing grin spread over Edward's face as he crossed the room to claim his piano again. "And now that you've succeeded in your first assignment, the master would like to return to his sanctuary."

Carlisle swiftly rose from the piano bench, his eyes still locked significantly with his son's. Esme hadn't the time to worry over their silent conversations before Carlisle took her hand and pulled her politely from the room.

"Then we'd best leave the master in peace," he played along.

The door closed behind them, leaving Edward alone with his piano...and leaving Esme alone with her doctor.

She expected Carlisle to let go of her hand the moment they were in the hall, but instead his grip tightened as he led her into the empty ballroom. The room itself was romantic enough in broad daylight, but there was an eerie beauty to it in the deep violet shadows of the evening. Stepping inside with him felt almost dangerous, as if they could drown in the darkness, or become lost amongst the fragmented patterns of the smooth marble floor. Edward's piano played softly behind the thick walls, bringing the smallest bit of life to the empty room, a song to awaken the spirits.

Carlisle was still holding her hand as she stepped around the faint squares of moonlight cast by the latticed windows on the western wall. By instinct, his feet seemed to follow her tentative path, as if the points of light were poisonous and the darkness safe. If they had given it any more thought, it perhaps should have been the opposite. Darkness should have been the pitfall, and light should have been safe ground. But on Christmas Eve the darkness felt sacred. There was a reverence in this sea of shadows; it was calm and a comfort to be in hiding.

Esme smiled to herself as her eyes traced the unfinished work of her wall paintings in the darkness. Feeling emboldened by the lack of light in the room, she turned to Carlisle and said, "Remember how astonished you were when I first painted over those murals on the walls over here?"

For a moment he looked surprised, then he chuckled at the memory. "I certainly wasn't expecting it."

"I know." She grinned. "Thinking back on it now, I realize I mostly just wanted to get a reaction from you."

There was no reason for her to admit this to him now, but the setting of secretive darkness around them seemed to coax the words from her mouth without a second thought.

She caught a glimpse of his youthful smile just before he turned away from her.

"Well, something much better came of it, I'd say," he said as he glanced around the room, appraising the half-finished walls that now resembled a shadowy green jungle in the darkness.

Taking several steps back to reach behind the door, Esme grappled around for the knob to control the lighting. "Does the chandelier work?"

"Yes, it does." Carlisle's voice echoed in the vast room as he strode over to her side. "Here…"

His arm brushed against hers as he reached behind the door, feeling around for the knob that was just beneath her fingertips. She graciously led him to what he was searching for and the lights instantly brightened, bathing the room in a crystalline golden glow.

"On second thought, turn the light off," Esme said, in a slight panic as she fumbled for the knob.

"But why?" Carlisle protested. "I'd like to look at your work… I can see it much better this way."

Her throat tightened nervously as he brought his arm around to pull her away from the door. "Oh, but that's why you need to shut the light off," she whimpered. "It looks nicer when you can't see all of the imperfections."

"I see no imperfections," he told her. Something in his tone seemed to suggest many more layers to the statement...at least more than what she should have expected from its given context.

In a desperate move of defense, Esme turned the light off.

"But you would if you looked more closely," she argued uselessly.

"Only the artist herself will see her work as anything less than perfect," he mused. His voice sounded so much deeper in the dark.

"That's not always true," she countered shakily.

"It is for you, Esme," he said with a gentle laugh. His presence was indescribably warm as he moved behind her, and his eyes were frustratingly patient as he reached up to grasp her hand. "Turn the light back on," he said softly, almost pleadingly.

Entirely free of her control, her hand obeyed him.

Carlisle sighed contentedly as the room was brought back to its gleaming golden life. Without moving from his secure place behind her, he looked around from one wall to the next, taking in the extent of her progress.

"It's coming along beautifully," he complimented.

She smiled out of his view, embarrassed more so by his closeness than his words. "If you say so."

As he moved away, his body brushed against her back. The contact was brief, but to her immense shame, somewhat telling. The fleeting nudge of his hips against her backside sent a crippling chill through her spine, a sensation that left her body feeling heavy and hot all over.

"Will you come outside with me?" he asked unexpectedly.

She looked to the veranda doors where he had gestured. "Outside?"

"Yes... You aren't still uncomfortable with that, are you?" he pried, suddenly wary.

Esme wavered a bit on her answer. "No...not really." The odds of a human passing through their barren woods on Christmas Eve were a million to one, but there would always be a twinge of uncertainty in her chest when she had to make the decision.

"I'll be right beside you the whole time," Carlisle told her, his most assuring smile in place. She had little reason to argue with him when he promised to protect her. An indecent part of her mind begged her to demand that he hold her hand the entire time, just to be on the safe side...

But that would have been a ridiculous thing to ask of him.

He wanted to be alone with her. That was enough.

Esme followed Carlisle through the doors onto the porch where the moonlight was blindingly bright to her keen eyes. Like a continuous strike of lightning it was, illuminating the earth for much longer than just a flash of a second. The yard looked even more vast under an endless sheet of sparkling snow. The frozen white lake extended the landscape to impossible lengths, slipping away into a black and blue horizon full of delicate silver stars.

Esme had only a few moments to be spellbound by the sight before the sensation of ice against her bare feet proved a bit distracting. She shivered out of habit and fixed her arms tightly around her body.

To her side, she could hear Carlisle chuckling to himself, and it sparked her curiosity.

"What is it?" she asked.

"You. Out here...in the cold," he answered, a most unexpected response.

She gave him a puzzled look.

His eyes lowered to her fidgeting ankles. "You're always shivering, dear," he explained, his tone soft but amused.

"It's thirty degrees out here, and I haven't even got any stockings on!" Esme defended, though she couldn't help but laugh a bit at herself.

"Oh, but we're made for all extremes of temperature," Carlisle pointed out. "We've just pampered ourselves by keeping to the house for so long. The trick is to wait a few moments; let your body adjust."

"I've tried that before, but it never works," she argued, then added in a half-joking whisper, "There must be something wrong with me."

"There's nothing wrong with you," he reassured with a grin, his voice softening. "Just relax. Don't try to fight the cold... Just let it envelop you for a while."

A bit begrudgingly, Esme followed the good doctor's advice and surrendered to the bitter chill surrounding her. Closing her eyes, she willed her body to feel heat though it seemed impossible. Surprisingly enough, her feet were the first to adjust to the ice beneath them. An upward trickle of warmth sped through her calves, then spread like soft fire through her entire body. Each limb was filled by the pleasant sensation, and when the gentle fire had dispersed, her skin was remarkably comfortable with the ungodly temperature. The cold suddenly felt natural, no longer bothersome. Her shivers had miraculously faded away.

"Can you feel it?" he whispered.

She nodded slowly in fascination, eyes still closed. "It's almost like the cold is just... melting away..."

She could hear him breathing in front of her, and her eyes at last opened to find him staring intently at her.

"I should have explained it to you before," he admitted apologetically before his lips quirked into a gentle half-smile. "But there was something rather adorable about your fierce need to wear an oversized coat whenever you came outside."

Esme laughed bashfully and tucked her hair behind her ear. "I may still prefer to wear a coat from time to time." Naturally, if he thought it _adorable, _she wasn't going to break that particular habit.

Oddly enough, Carlisle seemed pleased by this. "In that case, you're welcome to borrow mine next time, instead of Edward's," he offered.

There was nothing suggestive about him offering her to borrow his coat, but as she searched his face for signs of something more than teasing amusement, she noticed a touch of something unfamiliar in his eyes.

This time she hoped it was not just her imagination.

"I'll keep that in mind," she said quietly.

Hoping to alleviate the slight discomfort of their mutual silence, Esme remarked thoughtfully, "Edward seemed happy."

"He did," Carlisle agreed with a relieved sigh, his back relaxed against the marble pillar.

"He told me that he sometimes has trouble during the holidays," Esme continued in a low voice. "He's reminded of his family."

"I cannot blame him," Carlisle said darkly. "Edward's parents were tremendously loving. And not only toward him, but with each other as well. Even in the hour of their death," he mused, his eyes growing lost as he relived the memories. "I'd never seen any couple, so ill and so weak, look at each other in that way before..."

Esme suppressed a pang of irrational jealousy as Carlisle marveled over the love between Edward's parents. It was wrong, but it bothered her that these deceased humans could still have such an effect on him. He had been their doctor, of course, but Carlisle had watched people die for ages. He must have seen married couples give their final farewells countless times, yet his apparent favor for Edward's parents was potently clear.

Carlisle's gaze lifted to the moon, his eyes completely transfixed as if he were witnessing a miracle firsthand. His head tilted back ever so slightly, exposing his throat to the pure silver light, as if inviting the moonbeams to caress him. Esme felt that impossible heartbeat revive itself in her breast as she blatantly studied his strange expression, knowing he was too distracted to notice her staring.

His eyes wilted sadly as his thoughts seemed to settle. He looked both accepting and mildly devastated at whatever had transpired in his mind at that moment. But there was a palpable aura of longing about him, even after the memory had faded from his eyes.

"Edward lost a very loving, very close-knit family," Carlisle concluded, his voice low and tragic.

"Unlike us," Esme added before she could censor the thought.

At this, Carlisle's eyes flickered harshly to hers, and they shared a significant look. His face was shocked, and it didn't surprise her. She realized too late that it would have been wiser not to raise the issue in the first place.

"I don't pretend to be any more or less broken than Edward is," Carlisle said seriously. "However I do believe he lost much more than I did when he entered this life... And I believe _you _lost even more than both of us."

"Carlisle, that's not—"

He raised his hand to hush her. "Shh…Esme, please don't deny this."

"But I _chose_ to end my life, Carlisle. If I'd had anything to lose I would have chosen to live," she argued gently. "You had your life stolen from you – a rug swept out from underneath your feet." She whisked her hand across in gesture. "I had… I had my life restored."

His eyes were piercing and warm, their depths filled with color and torment. If she looked closely, she could almost see his emotions changing deep inside, like the rebirth of a phoenix in the pits of his eyes, black coal surrounded by burning amber.

"It was a dark gift I gave to you, Esme," Carlisle said at last, his words smooth and quiet in the tenor of his lost accent. "But I am most fiercely sincere when I tell you it was given in good will."

"I never doubted that it was…" she murmured, shaking her head. She took a careful step toward him, her voice softening. "But you seem to still feel guilty for it."

He took a long breath, his shoulders straining as if a weight were resting over him. "I'm trying to let go of my guilt," he whispered, his throat clasping the last word so it sounded like a most delicate sob. As if it had never happened, he continued strong, forcing his eyes to meet hers. "It is something I will always struggle with. But I _am _trying."

She smiled at him, her face full of appreciation, pity, and hope. "One day you'll let go."

In a painfully lovely little motion, he brushed his knuckles thoughtfully along his jaw.

"Perhaps."

Caught in these terrifying moments where their eyes could not seem to look away, Esme would have normally fumbled for a distraction to save herself. But this time, it seemed Carlisle was the one who struggled with the intensity of the moment.

She felt a bit of that same soft, feminine power that she had felt while standing at the top of the stairs earlier that evening, looking down at him. Even though she looked up at him now, she felt in complete control over her emotions, even _his _emotions. This time, she was the one who held _his_ gaze, and not the other way around.

Somewhere deep inside the house, the grandfather clock was singing its third chime out of a dozen to mark the new day. The sound was made dull by the distance, but it was full of such significance when they remembered what day it was…

"Merry Christmas," Esme sighed with a knowing smile, as was tradition to greet a friend on this holiday.

Because he was so deliciously religious, Carlisle responded in the most devout of manners, fingers tickling the cross at his neck as he whispered, "Christ is born."

She nodded infinitesimally, because Christ _was _born. No matter that this was, for their kind, irrelevant.

If Carlisle took joy in this notion, then Esme was helpless to find joy in it too.

And the joy she could see, so clear in his eyes of honey-colored crystal. She saw the speckles of his sins now when she looked at them. But these shy sparks of strange color in the pure realm of his gaze were captivating, especially when he no longer tried to hide them. They were subtle, but she knew they were there. He was allowing her to truly know him and see him now. Piece by piece, little by little.

Imperfections were beautiful on Carlisle, Esme thought.

Perhaps it wasn't so far-fetched to believe that he saw _her_ imperfections as beautiful too.

His smile remained strong as he gestured her toward the door, taking her back inside the warm house.

The lights were still burning bright inside, but this time Esme felt no need to hide.

* * *

_**A/N: **__To read this entire chapter from Carlisle's POV, please check out "Chapter 22: Unmasked by Moonlight" in __**Behind Stained Glass. **__And "Chapter 23: Why Candles are Holy" is a flashback of Carlisle's childhood that I wrote a while back, but it works as a nice lead-in for the next chapter of __Stained Glass Soul__ if you would like to read it first. _


	45. Christmas by Candlelight: Part I

**Chapter 45:**

**Christmas by Candlelight, Part I:**

**A Symbol of Hope**

* * *

Carlisle had perfected the art of giving.

A fine artist he was in this practice. His hands were coveted by many men, and without a doubt longed for by many women. But Esme longed for more of Carlisle than just his hands.

Because his hands she now seemed to have. The rest of him was still something of a mystery – a strong, tall, blond mystery.

She watched him from her corner, curled up in an old armchair by the window in the music room while Edward attempted to teach his father to play an arpeggio. That piano must have been loving all of the attention.

Esme grinned to herself as she scribbled away in her makeshift sketchbook. The paper felt thin and loose under her hand as she feverishly outlined the contours of Carlisle's body from behind before he moved. The position in which he now stood struck her as being delightfully reminiscent of the dignified statues of Classical Rome.

The balance of his legs as he rested one foot on his ankle and the aesthetically endearing angle of his hips created the perfect display of _contrapposto_. His elbows were resting on the top of the piano while he watched Edward play, his head tilted forward so that his hair fell slightly over his forehead on one side.

At one point, Esme's pencil slipped, distracted as she was by the beauty she was trying to capture on paper. The graphic point snapped, leaving her with nothing but a useless stub of lead. But the most inadequate drawing tools could not have stopped her frantic sketch. The rest of his figure was rendered with blunt lines by her pencil, but the finished drawing was still nothing less than perfect. At least she thought so.

Esme held her sketch pad out on her lap to compare her drawing to the man standing a few yards away from her. It may not have been an uncanny resemblance, but as a vampire her speed and talent were an impeccable combination. His body alone was a work of art in her eyes. She only wished she'd had a clearer view of his face from where she sat.

Looking back through her previous pages, Esme realized her entire sketchbook was filled with such unworthy subjects – birds and dying flowers and landscapes and random household objects. Not one page had the honor of bearing the face of her beloved. There was only one page left.

Somehow she would have to get Carlisle to pose for her.

A warm trickle of shyness filled her just at the thought of asking him to sit still for an entire hour while she drew his face. The most wonderfully heartbreaking part of it was that he _would _have done it for her. He would have sat still for hours while she drew him, without complaint. He would do anything to make her happy, anything to encourage her artistic passions. Sometimes Esme wondered if he was concerned for her, that she might become depressed if he didn't cater to her every wish.

If she had absently wished for him to smile, he had somehow known of it, for in that very moment Carlisle tipped his head up and caught Esme's eye from across the room, a brilliant smile etched onto his lips. Edward's fingers rolled gaily over the piano keys, and all of it blurred into a giddy whirlpool of sounds as she stared into the doctor's golden eyes.

"I'm almost out of sketchbook paper," she notified him without thinking.

Carlisle raised his eyebrows in surprise, looking to the book in her lap. She quickly closed the cover, afraid he might see the sketch of him.

"Come with me," he said, shrugging one shoulder in the direction of the hall. "I'll find you something in my study."

She followed him into the neighboring room, aware that he could have easily gone to fetch something without her accompaniment. Yet, he had asked her to come along.

Carlisle went about the room, searching the drawers, bending to open cabinets, stretching to reach shelves. It was all one expressive display, all a show for an artist's eye to feast upon, and he did not even realize. He walked with the stride of a man who knew his territory well, confident and graceful in his searching. He was in a constant stream of changing positions, so many glorious artistic poses that had Esme's fingers nearly squirming with the need to draw him over and over. She could fill pages with Carlisle in countless positions; bending, stretching, standing, reclining...

"Here, how is this?" he interrupted as he held out before her leather-bound, burgundy book. It was old looking, but in impressive condition for its age. "It's actually a journal, but it hasn't been written in yet," he explained.

Tucking her old sketchbook under her arm, Esme reached for the journal and took a curious peek at the first page. "Parchment?"

He pursed his lips bashfully. "It's...a bit aged."

"It's wonderful," she blurted.

Carlisle raised his eyes. "Really?"

She leafed through the beautiful brown pages, each one like an empty treasure map with all of its paths erased, just waiting for her to fill them again. "Yes—oh—it's perfect!" she exclaimed with an unintentional little squeak of excitement. "I love it."

"You do like antiques, don't you?" Carlisle asked her wryly.

"You should know that," she said with coy smirk as she looked up at him from beneath her lashes. "I do like _you._"

He looked vaguely impressed but quickly hid it with a humored grin. "Ah ha. What wit you have, Esme."

She giggled fondly, stroking her palm over the cool leather cover of the journal he had given her. "Now I can use something for drawing _and _writing," she mused as she slipped her old sketchbook from under her arm and held it beside the new one to compare the two.

"Is this what you have been using as a sketchbook?" Carlisle questioned lightly. She could hear the delicate note of hesitation in his tone, as if he were trying not to offend her by asking.

"Hm? Oh, this?" She quickly flipped it over in her hand, allowing him to see both sides. "Yes, it was blank when I found it under my bed upstairs. I've been using it for a while now. Whenever I see something that inspires me, I like to sit back and draw for a little bit." She shrugged happily.

"But this..." Carlisle uttered as he picked up the book from her hand. Hanging from the threads of its binding, Esme now realized that her old sketchbook made Carlisle's journal look brand new. "It's so...erm, worn out," he said. "I would be happy to buy you a new one. There's a place in town that sells very high quality art supp—"

"I like it this way," Esme interrupted politely, cocking her head as she reached out for her beloved book. "It has character," she decided. "Artistic things _should _have character."

Carlisle looked on fondly as she lovingly patted the front cover of the book that was practically falling apart. "I suppose that's true," he agreed with a drifting look in his eyes. "There was an artist I knew in Prague who once said something similar."

Esme smiled knowingly. "And was his sketchbook just as lovely as mine?"

"Worse," Carlisle laughed. "You know, he used to gather things he thought he could use for inspiration and keep them between the pages of his sketchbooks. They were so overstuffed that he could barely carry them comfortably."

"What kinds of things did he gather?" Esme asked curiously.

"Oh, I don't know..." Carlisle moved to the bookshelf and reached up for a heavy historical anthology. He flipped through it casually, and to her utter shock, ripped a page straight from the book. "Like this—" He reached out for Esme's sketchbook and demonstrated by folding the torn page and tucking it behind the front cover.

Laughing, Esme took the sketchbook back from him and opened it to see the page he had selected. On it was a black and white print photo of an elaborate floor mosaic that she recognized from the courtyard of a famous museum in Spain.

"What do I do with this?" she asked, tapping the page with her finger.

"Just keep collecting things you think you might be able to use," he explained. "Eventually the book becomes a log of where you've been. You take a piece of every room in this house with you and eventually something will strike your inspiration."

Staring into his sincere, overjoyed eyes, Esme was unable to disagree with this plan. "I think I'll do that."

"I thought you would," he said with a soft smile. "For the past few decades I've been doing something similar at the hospital. Every time one of my patients passes away, I like to take something that reminds me of them." He walked over to his desk and lifted his black medical bag. "I put them in here," he said as he opened it to show her some of the things that were inside – a pressed lily flower, a cheap wristwatch, a shoelace, a small hair barrette with blue stones in it. Though each item looked insignificant, he lifted them all with care, setting each on the desk after a fond sweep of his finger.

Esme stared sadly at the sentimental keepsakes. "Oh, Carlisle. To think of all those people you treated... Keeping a piece of each of them _is_ truly artwork, you know that?" She furrowed her eyes, twisting the frayed gray shoelace between her fingers as she asked him softly, "Doesn't it make you sad?"

His eyes deepened as they followed the twisting pattern of her fingers around the shoelace. "Sorrow is just another part of life like any other," he sighed, reaching down to still her fingers with a calming touch of his hand. Weakened by his touch, Esme released the string and let it slip from between her fingers. Carlisle placed it back with the other items on the desk and turned back to her with a brighter face. "But we mustn't speak of sadness on Christmas. We should be looking for inspiration."

Esme's eyes began eagerly flitting about the room. "Inspiration..."

"Yes, we need to find you some more scraps for your sketchbook."

She giggled grudgingly. "You won't stop until it falls apart completely, will you?"

"It's already hanging by a thread, dear," he chuckled. "How about this?" He reached back and ripped a page out of the medical journal on his desk.

Staring down at the page he had just given her, Esme smirked impishly to herself, attempting to hide the image from the doctor's eyes.

"Oh, lovely. I'm sure I can use a diagram of the male reproductive system in one of my paintings."

She glanced up to savor the look of pure, albeit attractive panic that had taken over Carlisle's face as he fumbled over his words.

"Is that—I didn't think—Wait..." Flustered, he craned his neck to glance back at the medical book lying open on his desk, then back to her, blindly extending his hand for the page in question.

"I was teasing you," Esme assured with a pleased giggle as she graciously flipped the page around to reveal its true contents. "It's a picture of the human skeleton."

The awkward moment of silence that followed was thankfully saved by Edward's hearty guffaw in the other room.

Carlisle promptly chuckled along in relief. "I think my son's behavior is rubbing off on you," he said secretively as he walked behind his desk to dig through the open drawer. Before she could utter her next thought, he silenced her by extracting a beautiful piece of pale purple fabric.

"I think my taste in art is rubbing off on _you_, Doctor Cullen," she said, impressed as she observed the scrap he had just given her. "Where did this come from?"

The sheepish expression that suddenly claimed his face was downright priceless.

"Promise you won't laugh."

Esme smiled, but didn't promise.

"That's from a jacket I owned in 1893."

She laughed.

Holding it up against his neck, she feigned a critical eye. "I'm not sure this color is quite befitting for your skin tone."

"I only wore it once," he defended, grinning boyishly as he swatted her hand away. "And I met many members of French high society when I did."

"I'm sure you made quite an impression on them."

His eyebrows raised infinitesimally as he looked into her eyes, half smiling. "Is that meant to be derogatory?"

"No, not at all," she said lightly. "It would be easy for anyone to remember your face."

Looking up at him right then, Esme only confirmed the truth of her statement. It would be easy for anyone to remember the wise, piercing golden eyes, the appealing contour of a noble profile, the wavy blond hair, the chiseled slope of a strong jaw... Yes, it would be too easy.

Carlisle tilted his head uncomfortably when he noticed her staring, and she quickly spoke up. "If only you'd saved more of this jacket, I probably could have made a dress out of the material," she said as she stretched the piece of smooth purple fabric between her fingers.

"But if the color is unflattering to the tone of _my _skin, then it wouldn't be any more fitting for you," he reminded her jokingly. "We are the same, you know."

_The same_. Esme's thoughts paused at his statement, always searching for hidden layers and deeper meaning in what Carlisle said. Looking over at him wryly, she quirked an eyebrow in challenge. "Then find me a nicer color, Carlisle."

He obediently bent over to rummage through the drawer, pulling out several crumpled pieces of paper and a thin wooden box. She stepped closer to watch as he opened the small box, revealing its empty inside which was lined with dark green velvet. Taking a letter opener, he carved out the lining from the bottom of the box and presented it to her.

"Oh, yes, that's just what I had in mind," she said with a genuine smile. "Look at how gorgeous that is." She placed the strip of velvet alongside against his hand for him to observe it from her angle. "Like the forest at night."

From the corner of her eye she saw Carlisle's head turn to look down at her in surprise. "Do you like poetry, Esme?"

"Yes," she answered, staring up into his eyes. "Very much."

As if by reflex, he reached back to the drawer and ripped a page out of what she guessed was a poetry book.

"Oh, don't, Carlisle."

"Why not?"

"You're ruining your entire library all so that I can stuff my sketchbook with random pages. It's not right."

"I've read every book in here at least a hundred times before," he insisted, offering her the torn page with earnest hands. "Besides, you'll be making these into something better."

Seeing no way to refuse him, Esme quietly accepted the page of poetry from Carlisle's hand. She looked down out of curiosity only to find that the page had not been printed as she'd expected. It had been, to her surprise, handwritten.

"Next you're going to tell me that Henry David Thoreau himself handwrote this," she mumbled.

"Actually, Oscar Wilde wrote this," Carlisle said seriously.

Esme whimpered faintly, about to shove it back at him before her fingerprints marred the ink.

"I'm joking," he laughed.

She merely shook her head at him, giggling softly in embarrassed relief.

"I had to get back at you for that 'diagram of a reproductive system' remark somehow," he whispered smartly as he helped her slip the handwritten page into the back of her now swollen sketchbook.

She gave an impish smile. "Sorry about that."

He smiled back at her forgivingly before tapping the cover of the blank parchment book he had given her.

"So... Are you going to sketch something on parchment now?"

Her eyes sparkled, intrigued. "Should I?"

"Please," he murmured, taking the old sketchbook from her grip and replacing it with the new one. She opened the book and gazed at the first blank page with hungry eyes.

"Come sit here," he said as he dragged the sofa a few feet closer to the fireplace. He carefully spread the pillows to make space for two, and her heart jumped as she realized he must have wanted to sit beside her. She settled herself down as daintily as possible on the very edge, hoping the extra space would invite him to fill it up.

But instead of sitting down, Carlisle walked back to his desk to fetch a simple graphite pencil for her to sketch with. She accepted the pencil when he offered it to her, and thanked him with a smile full of unintended meaning. His eyes shimmered under the dim light as he let go of the pencil, knowing the moment it left his hand, it would become an artist's magic wand. For the second time, Esme expected he would be sitting beside her, but instead he brushed his hands on his thighs and headed back to the fireplace.

He bent over at the hearth to help the dying fire, and she watched him stealthily from behind her book. There was something beautiful and chivalrous about the way he gently jabbed at the embers, stirring the flames back to life. In her mind, the domesticity of his familiar movements had placed him in the role of her secret husband, for however short a time. The fond sort of heat that filled her from head to toe as she watched him rearrange coal and tinder had nothing to do with the fire that grew under his helpful hands.

Quite absently, Esme's pencil began to sketch the contours of Carlisle's body, following his subtle movement with rapid finesse. Newborn flames purred to life as he turned over another charred log of wood, and as the blazing yellow light spilled before him, he turned his head and smiled a heartbreaking smile at her.

Her pencil froze in place.

"Don't stop," he said softly, his right arm still busily tending to the fire behind him. "You were very intense about whatever you were just sketching," he said. "I could hear it."

Her chest tightened in fear at the knowing look in his brassy eyes. The urge to viciously erase everything on that page almost pulled her hand into action. But as her gaze lowered to the flawless outline of his physique kneeling beside the fire, the thought of destroying such beautiful work made her want to cry.

"What were you drawing?" he pried.

A wave of awkwardness washed over her, and she suddenly felt on the verge of tears. He was so innocent, yet so intense. His eyes were fixed on her, quiet question written on his exquisite fire-lit face. Unable to speak anything but the truth while under his gaze, she whispered, "You... actually."

Carlisle raised both eyebrows in apparent surprise, but his expression had softened, as if he were aware that this confession troubled her. When she allowed herself to meet his eyes completely, she could see that his face was in fact filled with fondness, the glow of the fire painting the smooth, fine edges of his every feature.

She should have been appreciative of his sweet, smiling silence, though it did nothing but fill her with guilt. She cleared her throat, hoping to better explain herself.

"Your...position...was...aesthetic," she stuttered ineloquently.

Her stomach did an impressive little flip as his eyes lowered to observe his body from her suggested perspective. Shrugging one shoulder back, he sighed with a grin, "If you say so."

"I know it sounds ridiculous, but—"

"No, not at all," he interrupted, his palm raised in sincerity. The fire highlighted the outline of his full, squared hand before he slowly lowered it to his knee. "Sometimes things simply strike you," he added, rising up to stand with his back to the fireplace. "It happens to me when I'm sculpting figures. Well, I should say it _used _to happen to me_._"

His eyes lost themselves in thin air for a moment before he moved across the room and sat down next to her.

"Edward said that you stopped making sculptures for a while," Esme mentioned before asking him gently, "What happened?"

Carlisle bent forward, as though drawn to the fire even from a distance. His elbows settled upon his knees, his hands linked between them as he stared at the dancing flames in deep thought.

"It was around the time when we first moved here," he said in a soft voice. "I had to leave many of my maquettes behind, and...I don't know, I suppose I never felt like I _needed_ to sculpt anymore. It had always been a way to keep myself from feeling lonely, but now that I share my home with other people..." His eyes turned to her. "I don't feel that need anymore."

The firelight illuminated the blinking dimple in his cheek as he stared at her, his golden eyes both fierce and gentle, and still inexplicably alert with longing.

Just when Esme thought she had mastered the weight of Carlisle's stare, she was victimized by it the very next time their eyes met by some perfect accident. Even if it only lasted the whole of a second, that stare of his got her thinking again.

She could scarcely imagine it if she tried – her body pinned to a bed beneath him as he exhausted her with his passion. And the passion he had; she could see it too well in his eyes when he stared at her this way. This poor man had been repressed for so long, everything he held inside would only be twice as potent. What made Carlisle so different from other men was that _his _passions were untouched – _his_ heart had always been aching for the love of another to warm it.

That look in his eyes made her panic; it made her question the danger of her desire for him. That look made her realize just how _real _and _tragic _this man's love would be. Not only the familiar love she knew he had for her, but an erotic love – an uncontrolled fervor she could only dream of him possessing. Sometimes, in times like these, she thought she saw it hiding beneath the reflection of burning flames in his eyes. It was bountiful, blooming, and heavy. Gloriously unorthodox as it was for her to be even thinking of him this way, Esme could do nothing to stop her wonder. She may as well have been under a spell.

"Well…you can still carve things," she suggested shakily, trying in vain to break the hold of his entrancing gaze. Her eyes strayed from his handsome face, seeking relief in the fire across the room. "It doesn't have to be because you're lonely," she continued, calmed by the comforting chaos of flickering yellow flames. "It could be because you just want to create something out of nothing."

To her surprise, Carlisle chuckled quietly, his mouth partially hidden by his hand as his eyes quickly flickered from her face to the fire. "I've wanted that many times," he murmured, his voice fading.

"I've always thought that this is what art is," she admitted with a shrug as her pencil idly cross-hatched shadows on the page in her lap. Slowly, the figure's form was beginning to take shape, becoming three-dimensional beneath her hand. "Art _is_ creating something from nothing. Putting life into something that we perceive to be lifeless."

In the moment the loaded words left her lips, Esme had to suppress a gasp before her pencil scratched to a standstill on the page. The realization was sudden and striking, but her reaction was silent, subtle, nearly imperceptible as she glanced over at her maker. She could practically hear the thrumming of venom through his body as he sat innocently beside her, his weight and his presence and his scent so tragically close. By his immortal kiss he had injected life into _her _when she was on the brink of death. He had given her life in the only way he knew how.

By her own definition, Esme had declared herself to be Carlisle's artwork.

He did not bother to hold the secret from her; instead he smiled when he discovered the hidden implication in her soft-spoken words. It was a delicate smile, but in no way weak. Curiously, his lips were not hesitant with this smile, but rather confident and tender. It almost looked like he was trying to charm her... But his eyes showed a sparkle of sincerity before any mist of mischief could cloud them.

"Is that what you call it?" he whispered, his fingers slowly tangling together over his knee.

"Yes." Her lips were numb, and the word was barely audible as she said it, but everything in his eyes told her he had heard her, full and clear.

He blinked once, and it seemed to be in slow motion – his lashes resting for a moment too long before they lifted again. It was if he were expecting her to disappear when he opened his eyes again. But when he found that she was still there beside him, his smile broadened in joyous relief.

Before she could process what was happening, he had shifted closer to her on the couch, leaving mere inches between their bodies. Deftly, his hand reached out to hold the edge of her sketchbook where it rested on her knees. She could hear nothing but the feeble crackling of the fire, the soft crushing sounds of their clothing, and his thick, rhythmic breathing as he gently angled the book so that she could no longer hide what was on the page.

Her hands tried to resist at first, but it was useless. As the book tipped back from her limp grasp, Carlisle was free to look upon his partially drawn likeness.

The doctor's gaze dropped hungrily onto the page, and Esme cringed as his eyes wandered over the smudges of graphite and glaring imperfections of the still crude sketch. It made her face burn furiously that he had given her no choice before intruding upon what she had always regarded as a very private process. But to refuse him the chance to see her work in progress seemed unforgivably cruel all the same.

Torn, Esme quietly looked away while Carlisle took his time interpreting the fragments of her unfinished drawing.

She felt a fair bit foolish for being so bashful. Even she could attest that her work was hardly dilettante. But the length of time that passed while Carlisle looked over the image she had created of _him_ made her at least slightly unnerved. She felt like a student awaiting her professor's approval, praying that her ears would hear praise at the end of his assessment, and not a bark of disapproval.

Her throat clenched as she heard the familiar sound of his lips parting to speak.

"You made me look much better on paper."

Esme felt like collapsing under the weight of her relief as she turned around to catch his teasing eyes with a grin of gratitude. Her laughter was treading the stream of flirtatiousness, but with Carlisle smiling at her that way, she didn't care.

"And I'm not even finished with you yet," she joked as she worked the book free of his strong hands.

"Do you need me to resume my pose over there?" he asked, jerking his head in the direction of the fireplace.

She let the last of her laughter subside before answering sincerely, "Not tonight."

"Today," he corrected in a hushed voice. At her confused look, he gestured to the clock in the corner of the room, where the little hand pointed faithfully to the Roman Numeral IV.

Esme's fingers flitted up to her forehead in shock. "Oh, goodness, that went by so quickly!"

"It did, didn't it?" Carlisle sighed as he turned his head for a glimpse of the windows where the first light of Christmas morning was peeking through.

She ached to protest as his hands slipped away from her sketchbook, leaving it to flop dejectedly back onto her lap. He looked down at her with apologetic eyes as he awkwardly flattened the front of his wrinkled shirt with one hand. He bit his lip briefly before turning to glance at the door.

Even before he said it, she knew. He was going to leave.

"You still have to work this morning, don't you?" she asked, sounding like a disappointed daughter whose father was never home.

He opened his mouth, no doubt to give her the confirmation she did not want to hear, and so she stopped him gently with a shake of her head. "I understand."

"I won't be long. It _is_ a holiday," he whispered, barely touching her shoulder in a weak gesture of comfort before he strode back to his desk. She watched numbly as he picked up his late patients' belongings and placed them carefully back into his doctor's bag.

He seemed to be lingering over something on the surface of his desk, pausing in the midst of his flurried motions to take a closer look at something in his hands. Her artist's eyes were nearly watering from the beauty of his figure from behind. With a heavy heart, she gathered both her sketchbooks and slipped respectfully from the room to find Edward waiting for her in the dim hallway.

He pinched her shoulder until she turned to face him questioningly. Once he had her attention, he mouthed the silent sentence, _Say goodbye._

With a pained little smile, Edward then quickly retreated from the scene before his father could emerge from the study. Alone in the hall, Esme listened as Carlisle prepared himself to leave, the routine so familiar now, she had to smile whenever she heard it. He walked past her into the foyer, sighing dully as he slipped both arms into his coat, then rummaged through the closet for the proper scarf to wear. Esme appeared quietly behind him, looking on from the archway.

Always, when she watched him in this way, she was filled with a gentle panic. She supposed it was merely the notion that he was _leaving _her, for however brief a time. It affected her in a mildly bittersweet way, and yet she savored this peculiar feeling – the feeling of his absence before he had even gone.

Carlisle was very quiet as he prepared himself in the morning, as if solemn and spiritual thoughts were swimming through his mind like a soothing stream. Behind him, the windows seemed to brighten in his presence, the frost twisting out on the glass in glorious, swirling patterns, like the spindly but graceful branches of a brilliant white Somalian Myrrh tree.

With a bashful smile, Esme approached him where he stood by the open door. Her flesh was further frosted by the gentle gusts of wind from outside, but Carlisle was warm beside her, so the cold could not affect her.

She reached into the closet with one hand, easily finding the peek of dark red wool from the far corner. She pulled the scarf free from its hiding place and presented it briefly with a tilt of her head. "Is this the one you were searching for?"

His eyes drifted down to her face with the strangest expression – something between fascination and embarrassment – and he sighed. "Oh...well—yes."

His eyes lifted as she drew near him, and once they had clamped onto hers they did not let go. Esme's hands carried out the task they had performed only once before, her fingers working with such diligence and sureness that it felt as if she had done it countless times.

"I can't believe you have to work on Christmas," she whispered in pity once the scarf was tucked snugly around his neck.

"People still need healing on Christmas," he stated simply, his voice like rich honey glazing over her ears.

She shivered.

Maybe the cold _could _affect her.

Her eyes wilted in agreement as her hands at last settled with her finicky placement of the scarf.

If she had not seen the permission in his gaze, she would not have done it. But because she saw it – that brisk blaze of _come closer _begging in his eyes – she offered her closeness to him. She had to give him this before he left. She would not let him leave without it.

His arms were around her before she even registered her first step forward. She was all but swallowed by the coat he wore; because he had not yet buttoned it, she found herself pressed against him, caught between the sides.

"Don't stay too late," she mumbled against his chest. But being so shyly uttered, it was more a suggestion than an order.

His lungs lifted her as he inhaled a generous breath and sighed over her hair.

"I couldn't," he murmured back, and his choice of word pleased her. As if he would be _physically incapable _of staying away for too long.

There was a sudden tension to Carlisle's body as he held her, and when she felt him lift his head, she pulled back to look up at him with curious eyes. Her gaze followed the doctor's to where his son stood by the stairs, a tentative smirk on his handsome face.

"Merry Christmas, Carlisle." Edward said the words with dark but knowing kinship – an undertone of understanding carrying them, in a manner only his father could decipher.

Carlisle did not respond, but Esme guessed he had been the first to offer the greeting through his thoughts. Edward confirmed this with a broader smirk and gently broke up their lingering embrace with a friendly nudge to his father's shoulder.

"Spare me the sentimentalities, Doctor Cullen," he said to his father's silent remark.

Esme let herself fall away from Carlisle's arms, feeling a brief rush of loss and emptiness before her balance returned. Carlisle was still looking at her.

But she only noticed this because _she _was still looking at _him. _

Edward gave a humored grunt as he all but shoved the doctor out the door. "The earlier you leave, the earlier you can come home."

Esme was reeling.

Because Edward had said _"home." _

His playful tactics to avoid this observation had Esme running after him into the snow. Carlisle watched their childish antics with fond eyes as he made his way up to the edge of the street where his Cadillac was parked. She hoped he could hear the echoes of their laughter before he had started the engine.

"So what is 'home'? It's just a word!" Edward defended from inside a sea of snow dunes.

"You'd think it was, wouldn't you?"

She tackled him lovingly from the side.

"I can't believe this."

"Can't you bear to savor the sappiness for just one day, Edward?"

He grinned. "No."

As much as Esme had thought the holiday would not affect her vampire's heart, Christmas felt like it had never felt before. This Christmas, in this mansion she shared with Edward and Carlisle was the first Christmas she had ever remembered enjoying for what it should have offered. Warmth, love, family.

These feelings were glowing everywhere she went, and could not be avoided by even the swiftest of reflexes.

She wanted to be crushed by these feelings.

Edward was particularly helpful with that during the seven long hours Carlisle spent at the hospital. Regardless of the doctor's absence, this wasn't just any _day _to Esme; it truly did become a _holiday. _And she was surprised to find that it was really Edward who had made it that way.

"You know, I sort of wish we _had _gotten a tree," Edward admitted as he lounged lazily before the fire in the sitting room to dry off from their snow battle. "It could have gone right there, in that corner." He pointed to the empty space by the window.

Esme sighed.

"Should we do it?" he asked after a long moment. She could hear the smile in his voice.

"What?" But she was chuckling because she already knew.

He tilted his head back to look at her upside-down. "Let's just go knock a tree down and bring it in the house."

She gaped at him. "But we have no decorations for it."

He shrugged. "We can tie all of Carlisle's scarves together and use them as garland."

Then she burst out laughing.

In just ten minutes, the nearest unsuspecting evergreen was relocated from its roots by the front drive to the empty corner of the sitting room.

"I let you talk me into anything, Edward." Esme shook her head as they stood back to take in their home's new occupant.

"I know."

Deciding it was best not to anger Carlisle by using his clothing as ornamentation, they left the tree as it was, bare as nature bore it to be. It was just as beautiful that way, Esme thought. It wasn't hiding beneath anything.

"It's quite handsome for a tree, isn't it?" Esme teased.

"Yes. It goes well with our family," Edward agreed with a smirk.

By sunset they grew weary of complimenting their last-minute Christmas tree. Edward chose to make use of the snow in the back yard while it lasted, and Esme watched him from the porch.

The moment she caught the distant crush of snowy footsteps heading towards the house, she bolted back inside, leaving Edward to snigger behind her.

It was the strangest feeling, knowing Carlisle was in the house. It became a different place altogether as soon as he set foot in the foyer. She waited for him to situate himself, knowing it would be a tad overwhelming to attack him the moment he arrived. He brushed his boots off at the door, then hung up his coat and scarf, murmuring what sounded to be utter nonsense words beneath his breath.

Curious, Esme approached him from the hallway, listening as his senseless words raised in volume.

_"...Srozhdestvom Kristovym ... Maligayan Pasko ... Joyeux Noel ... Feliz Navidad..."_

He said them cheerily, in a way that allowed her to hear the smile in his voice as he spoke. She walked into the foyer with what she imagined was a mildly dumbfounded and amused look on her face. Carlisle glanced over at her as he slid the sleeves of his sweater off his arms, and he smiled broadly. Her knees felt a tad unstable.

"What are you doing?" she asked with a helpless giggle.

"I've just said 'Merry Christmas' in a dozen languages," he said simply. "I thought you might be familiar with at least one."

She laughed. "You could have said it once in English and saved yourself the trouble."

"I was trying to impress you," he said with a smirk, and she couldn't tell if he was teasing or not.

"Well, you did a fine job of that... Wait, now what are you doing?" She looked on in pleasant confusion as he pulled a small red case from his jacket pocket and held it out in his hand.

Her panic was brief, but had her heart still been in working order, it would have burst straight out of her chest at the sight.

She thought he'd brought her an engagement ring.

But as he opened the tiny red box with his finger, she saw what lay inside was not a diamond, but a small crystal dove with a golden string attached to its wing. It was only a Christmas ornament.

Something that felt disturbingly close to adrenaline burned through her body as she breathed in relief. The disappointment would hit her much later in the day, she was certain. For now she was too distracted by Carlisle's amazingly cheerful mood to care that his second Christmas gift was not a marriage proposal.

"One of my colleagues gave this to me as a Christmas gift," he explained as he hooked one finger through the string and lifted it to let the dove twirl slowly, catching the lights.

She smiled. "It's a lovely ornament."

"You did bring in a tree while I was gone," he acknowledged.

The scent of the pine sap must have been stronger than she thought.

"It was Edward's idea."

Carlisle's eyebrows went up in surprise. "Have you decorated it yet?"

Esme bit her lip as a wave of gentle embarrassment washed through her. She wondered if he had been expecting the house to be more festive when he came home, and suddenly she felt foolish for not bothering with the decorating.

"No," she answered in a small voice.

To her relief, Carlisle's face broke into an easy grin. "Well, come on then," he encouraged, beckoning her into the sitting room with his open hand.

Her eyes traveled like magnets to the place where he had briefly held out his palm, assuming she was meant to take hold of it. Just as she reached for it, he pulled his hand away, unaware that she had even moved towards him. Though it was clear she had been beside herself in assuming he was inviting her to hold his hand, Esme could not suppress the twinge of hurt she felt as she casually pulled her own hand away to quickly hide it beneath her hair.

She followed Carlisle to the place where Edward and she had set up the tree earlier that day. It looked awfully lonely in the far corner of the room, where soft rays of bluish light were streaming in from the window as if trying to cheer it up. But its perfume was vibrant, filling the room with the rich, heroic scent of a winter forest. Like a curious pheromone, it drew them closer, hypnotizing anyone who breathed it in.

Esme found herself so close to the tree she could make out every little niche in its bark, and every discoloration on its brushy needles. Feeling like it needed care, she lifted her fingers to stroke its desolate boughs. The needles tickled her fingertips, and she smiled to herself, considering the tree's response a welcoming one.

Aware that Carlisle was completely silent beside her, Esme's fingers became slightly shaky as she toyed absently with the slender pine branches. He was watching her, she realized – watching her touch a tree – and he seemed utterly captivated. She wondered if he could sense the life this tree still seemed to have within it. Could Carlisle feel that soft, quiet energy that plants had, that mysterious way they called for people to care for them? When her fingers could no longer seem to move properly, Esme turned questioningly to her silent onlooker, hoping he would speak.

The faint light from the window became trapped in his frustratingly gold eyes. It bounced through his tender gaze with a fleeting sparkle as he tilted his head and gently captured her hand that had been preoccupied with stroking the pine needles.

Esme's heart rejoiced in silence as contact was finally made between them. These days her body seemed to feed off of physical contact with Carlisle. A simple touch from him was like the most potent nourishment for her soul.

His skin was pleasantly warm as he cupped her hand, lifting the tiny dove on its thread to land on the perch of her palm.

He wanted her to place it on the tree.

"Where should I hang it?" she asked him.

Without so much as a glance at the tree, he smiled at her. "You choose," he said brightly. "Anywhere you want."

She lifted her hand indecisively, holding the dove up to each branch experimentally, but never feeling pleased. Her eyes traveled up the length of the tall tree and at last came to rest wistfully at the very top. There was a bare spot by the uppermost branch that looked appealing, but it was tragically out of reach... for _her._

Her skin simmered at the thought that seized her. If there was any way to feed herself from his touch, it was precisely what she was thinking of now.

"I want it to be all the way up at the top, Carlisle," she declared before she could stop herself.

He quickly glanced at the very top of the tree then looked back to her, his eyes glittering cryptically. "You cannot reach that high."

She fought the urge to smile broadly at her own selfish cleverness. "Not on my own."

His eyes twinkled again, an almost tarnished green color from the dusk. Without even the grace of hesitation, he stepped forward and grasped her waist with both his hands. "Let me lift you?"

Her eyes fluttered from the blissful tightness of his grasp. Turning her face away hastily to stare instead at her coveted spot on the tree, she nodded a few times, fearful that her distraction would cause her to drop the poor ornament before she even had the chance to hang it.

Her sweet doctor denied her even a moment to prepare herself. Before she knew it, his grip on her waist had tightened even further and her feet had parted with the hard ground below.

Her hand reached the highest branch with ease, but she lingered, pretending to struggle with the string so that she could prolong the exquisite sensation of being held above the ground by his hands.

Once the dove was secure in its place, Carlisle lowered Esme gently to the ground, his hands seeming reluctant to let her go. His fingers gave a small squeeze on either side of her waist before his hands slipped away, and her heart nearly burst with joy that he was comfortable with such an intimate gesture.

"Thank you," she sighed happily, brushing the pine needles from her dress.

He caught her eye with a gallant smile. "I would have put it in the very same place."

"A dove should be as near to the sky as possible," she agreed with quiet certainty, standing back to stare in awe at the only ornament on their Christmas tree.

"I like that," Carlisle whispered half to himself.

There was something magical about the lone dove hanging from the very top of the tree. It looked majestic despite its diminutive size, watching over the rest of the room from its heavenly perch in perfect solitude.

"The dove is a symbol for hope, isn't it?" Esme asked, her eyes still locked on the glistening crystal bird with its wings outspread.

"Yes," Carlisle replied, the depths of his wisdom resound in his voice, "the dove is a symbol for hope...and peace."

Her eyes wandered to his face, noticing the same appreciative wonder in his gaze.

"I like that," she quoted him with a soft smile.

"So do I."

* * *

_**A/N: **__Thank you for reading! It seems Christmas became a little longer than I expected. So I've decided to post this in two parts - this chapter being part one, the next chapter being part two._

_For further enrichment in Carlisle's past, you can read __**Behind Stained Glass**__ "Chapter 23: Why Candles are Holy." To read this entire chapter from Carlisle's point of view, you can read "Chapter 24: Whims of a Miracle Worker."_

_If you have a second to spare, I would be so happy to hear your thoughts on this chapter before you leave! _


	46. Christmas by Candlelight: Part II

**Chapter 46:**

**Christmas by Candlelight, Part II:**

**Treasure These Impossible Promises**

* * *

After Edward had approved the placement of the only ornament on their tree, they left the sitting room to spend the rest of Christmas in Carlisle's study. Upon Edward's sincere request, Carlisle had dug up a box of aged photographs taken of the people he had met over the years. There must have been at least a hundred photos in the box, yet this was only a tragically small percentage of the people Carlisle had known in his life, let alone in the last five years.

There were all sorts of people in those photographs. Elderly and infants, foreigners and Americans, men and women. In most of the pictures, the people wore expressions of contentment. The children, especially, looked overjoyed to have their picture taken. It was bittersweet to think that many of them were now physically older than the doctor who had treated them. Little did they know, they would live forever in the memory of their vampire physician, whether or not their smiling faces had been eternally pasted in a black and white photograph.

Damaged or not, these photos were some of the most exquisite Esme had ever laid eyes on. And while it had nothing to do with the people in them, it had everything to do with knowing Carlisle had cured or attempted to cure every one of them.

She looked up admirably at the miracle worker by her side, shyly avoiding Edward's burning stare from across the desk while she fawned over his father.

Carlisle fanned out a few photos in his hand like a deck of playing cards, cocking his head to one side as he looked through them with fond eyes. All Esme had to do was ask an insignificant question about one of those photos – _"Where was this one taken?", "What was this patient's name?"_ – and Carlisle would tell her every detail she craved to hear.

Edward's smile grew subtly wider after every question Carlisle answered. Eventually he became distracted by the bookshelves in his father's study. Either his interests naturally increased as he moved closer to the door, or he was just very eager to leave Esme and Carlisle alone as quickly as possible.

Esme watched from the corner of her eye as Edward finally slipped out the door, and a familiar little dance of nerves filled her belly once he'd made himself scarce.

Carlisle did not seem nearly as preoccupied with Edward's whereabouts. Esme watched as the doctor leafed through photo after photo, finally settling on one which he paused to hold tightly between his fingertips, staring down at its subject with a smile.

"I have a story for you," his secretive voice filled the silence.

Esme looked up quickly, hardly able to hide her excitement. "You do?"

"Yes, I think you will appreciate it," he said, a peaceful smile on his lips as he showed her the photo in his hand. "See this boy? His name is Luke." Esme looked down at the scruffy blond-haired boy in the photo. He was skinny and slightly weak looking but his eyes and smile were vibrant with youth. He must have been no more than ten years old.

Carlisle continued, "He was my patient in 1912, not long after I treated you. His parents had both died about a half a year before I met him. They had been passengers on the Titanic, coming home to him from Europe."

Esme gasped in dismay. "Oh, that's tragic!"

Carlisle's serious expression quickly softened. "But you must listen to my story," he calmly reassured her. "It has a happy ending." He waited for the complacency to show in her eyes before continuing.

"I was treating Luke for Rheumatic fever. He was only ten years old, but his illness had become so severe that I believed he would not live to see the end of that year.

"During the week before Christmas, Luke was alone at the hospital, so I stayed with him every spare moment I had, even when I was off duty. He spoke to me constantly about missing his parents during the holidays, but there was so little I could do for him, and I felt terrible for it."

Carlisle's eyes glimmered with memories so stark that Esme could almost see every scene he recounted, playing out like a moving picture before her.

"Just a few days later, a new patient was admitted under my care," he continued, strumming the corner of the photo with his thumb. "She was a married woman, and she and her husband had been unable to bear children. She told me how she had always longed to have a child, and all I could think about was little Luke and his need for a mother."

Esme promptly interrupted the story, overjoyed at what Carlisle seemed to be implying. "You brought them together?" she said earnestly, her eyes hopeful. "Tell me you brought them together."

"I did." Carlisle smiled, not bothering to hide his pride. "I never saw a child so happy before in my life; nor a grown woman for that matter. They became a family shortly after that, and they were inseparable," he recalled with a look of deep reminiscence on his face. "Sadly I don't have a photograph of Luke with his new parents. But there was no sight more heartwarming than watching him hold each of their hands as they took him home."

If she looked closely enough, Esme swore she could see the very silhouette of two parents and a child, dark and glossy in Carlisle's expressive eyes.

"I'm sure they never forgot that Christmas," she said, her voice laced with reverent sincerity. "Or _you_ for bringing them together," she added.

Carlisle blinked a few times as he set the photo down on the desk, almost as if he were fighting back tears. "I like to think that Luke lived a few years longer because he finally had people who cared for him," he confessed quietly.

Carefully, Esme reached up to touch Carlisle's shoulder. "Well, who knows? Maybe he is still alive and well, enjoying this Christmas just the same as we are right now."

Carlisle breathed deeply, and her hand rose and fell with the smooth movement. "Somehow I feel this is true," he whispered, an achy smile on his face.

"That's a beautiful story, Carlisle," she said, gently moving her hand further to cover his shoulder. "Have you ever told it to Edward?"

"Not aloud," Carlisle admitted.

Esme smiled in understanding. "I wish I could entertain _you _with precious stories from my past."

"You have no memories of the holidays when you were human?" he inquired doubtfully, turning to look down at her.

"The last Christmas I remember was when I was just a little girl," she said, straining to reproduce the images in her head. "It was just one of those odd memories that seeped into my subconscious a few nights ago."

"Tell me about it," he said quietly, like a soft-spoken child's demand for a bedtime story.

Beneath her resting hand, Esme felt Carlisle's shoulder relax as she began to talk. "Well, I might have been eight or so, I'm not sure. I was standing in the open doorway, and it was snowing outside...and...I was holding one of those _bonbonnière_ boxes – remember those?"

He chuckled and nodded, his eyes shining for her to continue.

"My father was doing something with the garland on the banister outside..." She pressed her fingers to her forehead, trying to summon the rest of the memory forth, but it stopped at the very same place it always did, just before her father turned around to face her. "I can't remember his face at all," she sighed, slightly put down by yet another blank spot in her memory.

Carlisle's next question was utterly unexpected.

"Do you remember your mother?"

Esme's eyes reached his like a bolt, searching for the source of the soft distress she'd caught in his voice.

"No," she whispered apologetically.

His face fell at her gentle but honest answer, and she watched his eyes flicker with the thrumming shades of his past. Sepia toned streets of London and vast cathedrals, rolling seas and endless fields of soft golden fern. The images melted into her, fueling her fascination as she awaited his next words.

"As a child I used to wish, most ardently, for a mother around Christmastime," he revealed, his voice raw and warm. "It wasn't as if I was the only boy without a mother, of course. So many women passed away during childbirth in those times; I was only one of many children who were left with just one parent."

His eyes downcast, he reached down to rub the corner of one thin photograph between his fingertips.

Esme's curiosity flared, fearing that his distant demeanor would forbid her next question.

"Do you ever imagine what your mother might have looked like?" she asked.

Carlisle looked up from the desk, his eyes glassy. "Yes." His lips twisted into a bittersweet half-smile. "All of the time."

The forlorn rasp in his voice caused a lump to form in Esme's throat.

"Sometimes I do the same with my son," she revealed, only aware of how intimate the confession was after she had uttered it. But she genuinely felt that her words were safe with Carlisle, no matter how personal they were to her.

"Oh, Esme." He spoke in a whisper, but his tone was somehow fiery. He pulled his eyes away from her then, one handsome hand tucked against his heart, his brow furrowed in irrational pain.

"I never named him," she forced the words out, her voice and chest both unpleasantly empty. "Can you believe that?"

Carlisle looked back to her, his hand still taut in a firm fist upon his chest. He looked as though he were preparing to take an oath for something. His eyes blazed for an exquisite moment as he searched her face, the intensity of his warm gaze fueling her urge to ask her most burning question.

"If you were ever to have your own son, what would you name him?"

At first Carlisle looked taken aback by her boldness, then utterly moved to the point of tears, perhaps from the nature of her question. He was honored she had asked for _his _ideal name, knowing she would readily and gladly accept whatever he offered.

"Gabriel," he whispered hoarsely. As ragged and broken as Carlisle's voice was, Esme had never heard the particular name sound more beautiful before.

"After the archangel?" she guessed, suddenly able to smile.

Carlisle nodded, and everything in his eyes and his smile seemed to silently say, _"You know me so well."_

"Then that will be my son's name," Esme resolved. She closed her eyes and let the name roll softly from her tongue, as if cooing to a baby who was really there in her arms. "Gabriel."

She could feel the magnificent pressure from Carlisle's eyes as he watched her savor the name he had chosen. Behind her closed eyes, she imagined the soft, warm body of an infant child in her lap; the helpless, jerking movements of his flailing arms, the frail weight of his tiny head.

She imagined the bubbly, whimpering sounds he would make as he tried to speak to his mother. And he would make no sense to anyone but her. She would understand him, because their hearts were linked as one.

A content smile crept across her lips as her arms instinctively formed a cradle around her invisible baby boy. She could almost feel the fragile puffs of his warm breath on her breast, the heady waves of love that enveloped her entire being when he nudged his face closer to her.

She could feel her fingers threading through the soft, strawberry blond curls on his head, and her hand pressed protectively over a tiny, fluttering heartbeat. All the while she could hear her own voice, whispering his name like a peaceful prayer, _"Gabriel, Gabriel, Gabriel…"_

The name that Carlisle would have chosen for his _own _son was now the name of _her _son. Esme was ashamed to admit how incredibly heartbreaking this twisted accident truly was.

But perhaps it was no accident at all.

"You don't know how long I've needed to do that," she sighed, at last feeling a heaviness drift peacefully away from her body. "For so long I've avoided naming him, afraid that I would only miss him more. But now that I can finally call him by name, I only feel more..." she paused, realizing she did not need to search for the right word, "...complete."

"That's wonderful, Esme," Carlisle whispered sincerely. "Hearing you say that – it brings me such peace, you cannot even imagine." He shook his head softly as he lifted a finger to briefly caress her jaw. Giving her barely enough time to revel in his touch, he pulled away. "Every time you feel that sense of completeness, you take another step forward," he said.

"I couldn't take those steps without you," she reminded him. "Everything you give me is a gift, Carlisle. You know that." She looked fiercely into his eyes, determined that he hear the truth in what she was telling him. "Don't look melancholy, it's true."

"I wasn't feeling melancholy," he defended softly, his eyes furrowed in apology. "I was only...pondering."

"Pondering?" She couldn't help smiling a bit. Carlisle seemed to lose himself in his thoughts more and more frequently nowadays. "What about?" she queried.

He sighed deeply, a sweet gust of his breath tickling her forehead. "I don't really know how else to explain it, but this is the first Christmas I've had in a very long time that truly _feels _like Christmas."

A small smile tugged his lips as he looked back at her. She nodded slowly, hoping he was headed in a favorable direction. "I know what you mean."

To her surprise, he took a step back from her and narrowed his eyes. "Hm."

"What?"

He shrugged one shoulder despondently and brought his attention back to the desk, beginning to sweep the surface clear of the photos he had spread out. "I'd always imagined you to be the kind of person who could never feel depressed on a holiday."

"I don't think that kind of person exists, Carlisle," she said wisely as she watched him organize the photographs back inside their box. "As much as we'd like to think it does."

His hands slowed as he fitted the lid onto the box and turned to face her, his eyes worried.

"You were...troubled the last several years of your life," he assumed softly, "weren't you?"

Finding the pain was not so poignant as it once had been, Esme simply nodded. "Yes, very much so." Her memories were scattered and vague, but the feelings were still bright on the surface. She could remember the way it had felt when she was left alone – the sinking, draining, lead-in-her-heart feeling of being unwanted. "There was no one there for me during the rest of the year, let alone the holidays."

Her eyes dropped shamefully to the floor, settling on Carlisle's shoes instead of his face. She wanted to stay strong and really speak about these things openly with him, but sometimes she feared the emotions would render her speechless and leave her on the verge of tears. She took a deep breath at the same time he did, one slightly deeper than the other.

She watched Carlisle's shoes step toward her, leaving little space between them.

"Do you not know that when you tell me these things, I literally ache?" His voice again took on that fiery sort of whisper, mollifying to her mindful ears, yet at the same time sharper than a knife's edge.

It thrilled her to hear him speak this way, but she felt it was her duty to subdue his passion before it grew bitter in his mouth.

"You shouldn't," she said somewhat sharply, softening the mild blow with a well-timed touch of her hand on his chest. "The worst of the pain has left me," she assured him, watching the protective fire fade from his eyes. "It's all so distant now, it's almost like... like I'm remembering another person's life, and not my own."

"But you still remember it," he pointed out. "That must hurt sometimes."

"Of course," she whispered as she discreetly pulled her hand away from his heart. "You would know that just as well as I do."

"_I_ was not abused, Esme," he reminded her. The significance in his eyes overwhelmed her.

"You were neglected," she gently retaliated. "That can be just as painful."

His eyes flickered. "That kind of pain is...transient," he claimed weakly.

"Is it really?" she challenged, her voice bright, strangely invigorated by the thought of arguing with him. The look of hurt on his face quelled her fervor, encouraging her to speak more softly. "You still fear being alone, Carlisle. I can sense that about you."

His eyes widened marginally at her boldness, delightfully stunned that his deepest fear could be so plain.

"You sense this?" he breathed. "How?"

"I see it in your face. I hear it in your voice," she said simply as if reading a list. "Even the way you move tells me this."

He winced in doubt. "I don't understand what any of these things have to do with my fear of loneliness."

She could feel it all bubbling to the surface. It was his closeness, the hopeless curiosity in his voice, the confusion in his eyes. She was going to be brutally, beautifully honest with him. There was no turning back.

"There's always been something about you that looks sad to me," she began. "Something in your eyes. The way you look at people... almost like you're pleading with them." Her gaze fixed on his as she continued, her voice dipping lower with every word. "When you're sharing a room with someone, you'll never leave more than a certain amount of space between you and the other person."

The realization dawned over his face like the sun passing through a shadow. As she stared at him, she could not help but think he looked as if he were being stripped bare, that he had finally been discovered in his age-old hiding place. He tilted his head in question, the carpet sighing beneath his feet as he stepped just an inch closer.

"And my voice," he prompted, his words eroded by breathlessness. "How do you sense it in my voice?"

She knew what she _wanted _to say. She knew what her true answer would have been. She knew every word of it.

_You are too soft-spoken for one so brave and sure. Your words are always hesitant, your lips are never fully opened when you speak. You sometimes prolong the time it takes you to respond to someone, as if you need just one extra moment to be sure they won't leave before they've heard what you have to say…_

Her mind was racing with possible consequences, should she reveal all of this to him right now. Her tongue had never been more ready to weave those words into sounds. Then—

_Thwap! _

Just before she could utter a single word, the window behind them was lobbed by a handful of snow. Carlisle jumped at the interruption, eyes wide, while Esme chimed with relieved laughter.

"Is that Edward?" she guessed, racing to the window to see. The tension was still thick on her heels as she tried to outrun it, moving away from Carlisle. But as she had just elucidated, he was unable to leave more than a few feet of space between them.

They both gathered by the glass and peered out into the yard where Edward was standing a fair distance away with an elaborate city made out of snow close behind him.

"Oh, look at him," Carlisle tried not to laugh as Edward waved his arms enthusiastically, presenting the impressive work to his audience with a cheeky grin.

"Well, he's quite talented," Esme remarked with a giggle. "You can't deny that."

"He's a genius," Carlisle confirmed with all the fondness of a father. "And I'm not just boasting on his behalf. He truly is one of the most brilliant young men I've met. And I've met many."

"He seems much happier lately," she mentioned lightly, hoping to wander as far away as possible from the sensitive subject that had just been interrupted.

She hadn't quite expected Carlisle's stare to feel so very heavy on her face. He was obviously thinking of her words from before, and a part of him seemed to be mourning the loss of her response.

She would let him wonder.

"You seem happier too," he finally said, accepting an end to their unfinished conversation.

Her eyes opened to him gratefully, accepting the weight of his gold. "I am."

He smiled – his signature soft, sublime smile – but it was filled with more joy than she thought possible to show in such a small curve of the lips. "I'm glad," he said.

Shyly, she smiled back and averted her eyes to the desk, skimming her fingers over its smooth surface. It was surprising how very familiar this desk had become to her, after how long she had spent behind it, beside it, above it. She felt so at home standing here. It was clear to her why Carlisle always desired to be close to it.

As her fingers passed over the corner, they met with a sizable stack of opened envelopes. Inside of each, a brightly colored card peeked out with the promise of appreciative prose.

_Christmas cards._

"Are these...?" She was almost in awe, but not quite sure why.

"From my patients, yes," Carlisle acknowledged softly.

"Do you mind if I...?" She prodded the stack with her finger in suggestion, and looked up for his consent.

"No, not at all." He seemed almost flattered, but also a little curious, a little sad. "Would you like to look at them?"

Before she could nod, he took the stack of cards into his hands and walked toward the sofa by the fire. Her heart squirmed happily as he lowered himself onto the cushions, leaving ample room for her to sit beside him.

Once situated, he began to slide each card out of its envelope, passing them to Esme so that she could read them one at a time.

There was something heartbreaking about those Christmas cards, how all of those humans had written heartfelt words of gratitude for healing their loved ones, permanently marked on pages of green and red and gold. They thanked their beloved healer for giving them hope when they were hopeless. Every _"Dear Doctor Cullen" _was scrawled and scripted in different writing, in different colored ink, each one just as sincere as the next and the last.

"They're beautiful," she whispered.

"They are, aren't they?" He sounded breathless, slightly perplexed, but in absolute agreement – as if he'd never thought of them in that way before.

"The things they say to you," she marveled, tracing the handwriting inside one card with her fingertip. "You can just see how much they _care _about you."

"You can?" He touched the top of her head with his chin, his voice husky and lazy, as if he already knew the answer.

She nodded carefully so as not to discourage the placement of his chin. "Absolutely," she confirmed, tucking the card back into its envelope. "They adore you – what you've done for them."

His breathing was fuller now, his chest pushing up against her shoulder as they fell into contented silence. The fire crackled enthusiastically to entertain them, but their thoughts were too distracted to listen.

"These cards are precious," Esme finally said, her voice small. "You should treasure them forever."

Carlisle hummed deeply against her as a reply, and if she hadn't known better, she would have thought he was slowly slipping into slumber above her head.

Oh, but the sound was so wonderful – it stirred inside of her, woke up little mysterious feelings and sensations in places that she was never aware of before. Her neck felt warm and her fingers sizzled, and her lungs seemed to loosen to take in more air, more of his scent.

"Do you realize how blessed you are to have so many people who respect you and care for you?" she asked him, still seeking some semblance of awe from him.

His arm stiffened where it lay behind her back.

"They _think _about you, Carlisle. My God, they've _seen _you, and they _remember _you."

"Esme?"

"Humans, Carlisle. Humans!" she gushed, her voice soft, but rich with amazement. "You interact with them, and they respond to you. They _know _you. Don't you see how miraculous that is?"

"Miraculous," he repeated, dreamily. "You compare this with a miracle?"

Esme wanted to show him just how miraculous she thought this was. She wanted her words to push him until he realized how ridiculously lucky he was to have this kind of affection from so many people every day.

But her words melted when she saw the fierceness in his eyes.

Carlisle _knew _this was miraculous. He recognized the miracle. He had seen everything from the bitter, barren landscape of loneliness to the teeming halls of a hospital full of humans who depended on him_. _He knew the chasm existed; he had leapt across it all on his own. A leap of pure faith.

Calmed by the flames of wisdom in his gaze, Esme settled against him with a long sigh. "I'm just trying to say, it feels strange," she murmured, so close to his scars, "when no one knows that you exist..."

Just as Carlisle knew the company of another was a miracle, he knew that Esme was speaking as much of her own existence as she was speaking of his.

"Edward and I know you exist," he said to her, his voice feverish with recognition and promise.

His hand claimed her chin as he sought out her eyes. His usual gentleness held an edge of firmer handling, and it was thrillingly effective.

Esme had no choice but to dive desperately into his arms. "I know it should be enough," she whimpered against his shoulder, "but there's something inside of me that longs to be recognized by the society I once belonged to."

"Oh, I know how you feel," he soothed as his second arm aided in trapping her. "It won't be this way forever, Esme. I will help you. One day you will be there again, just as I am. I can promise you that."

Her fingers found their way instinctively to the very first button of his collar, but there they stopped, almost afraid to touch it.

"Your promises seem impossible sometimes, Carlisle," she muttered beneath her breath.

He sighed deeply against her ear. "I would never make a promise if it were impossible."

Her fingers slid away from his collar, down his chest, on a bold but slow path toward his belt.

"I know that," she mumbled, the words smooth in her throat, but shaky on her tongue. "I trust you."

Her hand reached the end of its journey – far lower than she had intended to let it travel. She was vaguely mortified at just how low her hand now rested on his stomach. And it was not the sort of touch that was light enough to have gone ignored. It was a significant touch – firm enough to spark a keen awareness in the one who felt it.

And Carlisle clearly felt it.

She heard him swallow. She watched, closely, the dainty bulge of his Adam's apple as it stroked the inside of his throat. It was so beautiful, this reaction, that she couldn't have moved her hand if she tried.

Discreetly, in one surgically sound motion, Carlisle's hand swept the pile of cards from her lap into his own. He was claiming them as his, of course. That was why he had taken them back. They did not belong to her.

There was little discomfort in his posture, but something about the way his breath began to falter begged Esme the mercy to spare him such a touch. Reluctantly, she let her hand drift away from that tender space just above his belt.

With her head pressed beneath his chin, she settled against his body, somehow able to find the nearness both stirring and comforting – an odd mixture of sensations that she found strangely pleasurable.

The flames of the fireplace were dying already, drowning under wisps of amber smoke, gasping softly with the crackles of the coal. But the candles that Carlisle had lit above the mantel danced on, a sweet innocent dance, taunting the fire with their unattainable endurance.

"Why are candles holy?" Esme asked, when the fire could no longer eavesdrop on their conversation.

Carlisle, being the expert on candles, answered her question promptly. "Because they bring warmth to places of coldness and light to places of darkness. Because even when their flames go out, they can always be lit again. And they will burn just as brightly as they did before."

If she still had a soul, it would have been trembling at his words.

"That's so beautiful."

His hand tightened on her arm.

"It is the Truth," he explained softly. "The Truth is always beautiful."

"Sometimes it isn't," she whispered, a delicate advocate for the devil.

"I don't believe we are speaking of the same _Truth_, Bright Eyes."

_Bright Eyes. _

Oh, it had been too long since he'd called her that.

How _intimate _it sounded when he whispered it here. When they were so close to each other, beside the fire, with nothing between them but the fabric of their clothing and a little bit of heat, and a few Christmas cards.

"Hmmm," Esme hummed, curious to hear more. "What is _your _'truth'?"

"My 'Truth' is the truth which was promised to me," he revealed, his voice husky with hope. "The everlasting Truth. The answer to eternity. Life Eternal in the kingdom of heaven."

Even as the fire breathed its final farewell, Esme's gaze was entranced by the flames of the candles above it, their lights flickering like tiny halos in the darkness.

"You are like a candle, Carlisle," her heart said out loud.

He chuckled, low and breathy above her head. "Is this a compliment, dear Esme?"

"Yes," she smiled, nudging her head fondly against the weight of his jaw. "The best sort."

His chest shook against her, and she savored his soothing laughter like a dry flower would savor water. It was all she could do not to force his lips into immediate union with her own.

"You've brought me such joy, Esme," he practically purred. His hand around her shoulder gently pulled her in closer, forcing her to rest her head against his chest.

"Are you always so sentimental around the holidays?" she wondered with a flighty giggle.

But it was Edward's fond voice that answered her, from somewhere out in the snow. "Trust me, he is."

* * *

**A/N: **

_Thank you all for your patience with this chapter! So what did you think of Esme's first Christmas as a vampire? :)_

_Carlisle's POV of Chapter 45 has already been added to __**Behind Stained Glass **__in __**Chapter 25: "A Breathtaking Blessing"**__ if you would like to read it._

_I also wrote a new one-shot called "What Happens in the Apple Orchard." It involves Carlisle, Esme, the forbidden fruit, and a pile of hay... _

_Please take a moment to review and let me know your thoughts before you leave. As always, thanks for reading!_


	47. No Shame in a Safe Haven

**Chapter 47: **

**No Shame in a Safe Haven **

_Warning: mildly graphic scenes in this chapter, involving blood._

* * *

Carlisle took a bath the morning after Christmas.

Esme supposed he did it to comfort himself. There was something about the warm water he found soothing, tranquil, calming. He had said before that it made him feel human.

It was a frustratingly quiet morning. Not a sound besides the soft touch of snowflakes on the roof to interrupt his intimate ambiance behind the bathroom door.

Esme rushed up to her bedroom and closed the doors, trying to keep the tension at bay. She watched the snow fall outside her window, her eyes growing dizzy from the show. But the caress of the wet sponge was too distracting to ignore, the gentle splash of the water too telling to feign disinterest. She wondered if he had felt the same awkward intensity when listening to her in the bath. Was his control not even brought into question? Was his mind genuinely uninterested in what _she _happened to be doing behind closed doors, nude in a tub of soapy water?

Struck by a bolt of shame, Esme tore out her old sketchbook from under her pillow and fled down the hall to her library. She began to raid the shelves one by one, ripping pages out of the books without looking at the titles. She gathered so many that the binding on her sketchbook started to loosen, and she knew it would eventually collapse if she added any more.

That was her plan.

After just five more pages, it worked. Her old sketchbook snapped into two pieces of equal weight. Satisfied, Esme tucked the book halves beneath her arm and rushed back to her room to toss them onto the bed. With loving fingers she brought the new sketchbook Carlisle had given her out of its place beneath her other pillow and opened it carefully. Slowly, she began to transfer the pages from her broken sketchbook into the new one, using more attentive care with the distribution. Her life was moving from one book to the other. Every bit of inspiration she had gathered in the old must move on to the new.

She had hoped the project would prove distracting enough to block out the sounds of the doctor bathing across the hall. But her ears were still listening for that quiet splash of water and the sigh of the sponge as it laved over his skin. The sounds were as upsetting as they were stirring. She shouldn't have been imagining him as she listened; she shouldn't have been envisioning herself walking in on him, taking the sponge and the soap from his hands and finishing the job for him...

But she was.

Her hands grew lethargic as they transferred page after page from one sketchbook to the other. Very soon she was ignoring what her hands were doing altogether, and she found her fingers tightly bunched around the end of the bed sheet.

She closed her eyes and let the images swell and fade – her hand reaching out for his bare bicep, her fingers twisting into his wet golden curls. She watched teardrops of lather slip down his muscled back, and his neck stretch forward to accommodate her searching touch.

A soft smile crossed her face as the tender knot in her stomach tightened. Indulging the fantasy, she lay back on the bed and let her restless hands roam the length of a pillow, imagining his body in its place.

She could hear the real strain of his breath as it echoed in the hall, and it aided her dream in a most lovely way. Every time she rubbed her hands across his make-believe back, he responded with a timely sigh, and sometimes even a gasp.

To her pleasant confusion, the scrubbing seemed to grow slightly more frantic, then suddenly the water fell still. He paused all movement, as if holding his breath, and moments later he released it. Like a pair of forceps pinching her heart, she was plucked away from the daydream and dropped back into reality as the drain began sucking the water down with an empty gurgle.

Esme shot up in her bed, back rigid and eyes wide, making the same, silent, useless vow to never indulge herself in such inappropriate thoughts ever again.

After a moment of recuperation, she picked up her new sketchbook and hugged it against her chest as she flew out the door.

Edward was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, a predictable look of distaste written on his face.

_I know, I know... I was foolish. _She tried to apologize through her thoughts, begging him with her eyes. _I'm so sorry, darling. _

Edward huffed a quick sigh of forgiveness and opened the front door. "Let's take a walk, you and me."

The offer sounded appealing. "Yes, I think I could use a walk." She quickly pulled her boots on and shut the door behind her.

The crunch of snow beneath their feet was soothing, the occasional call of a hawk in the distance reassuring that there was still life out there somewhere.

"So have you given any thought to when you want to start practicing going out into town?" Edward asked, surprising her.

"I try not to think about that."

"You're going to have to do it sometime."

She sighed. "I know."

But it was still a slightly scary thought.

Edward smiled in understanding. "When I was first starting out, Carlisle took me to the town library on Mondays. Very few people were there, and the atmosphere was fairly calm. It was a good way to work myself up to being around crowds, albeit a slow one."

"I guess that doesn't sound too bad..."

"It really isn't." He shrugged. "At least as long as you're well fed to begin with."

She sniffed. "Speaking of, we haven't been getting much in the way of game around here lately, have we?"

"No, and I've been having to run out of state just to get a decent drink lately," he complained, kicking up a cloud of snow in his bitterness. "These gray squirrels around here taste like liquid cement."

She giggled. "I thought they were rather satisfying." He made a face and she laughed harder. "Aren't you finicky?"

"One day you will be, too," he said with a smirk. "You're just not as picky right now because you're still a newborn."

_Still a newborn. _It was still fact, but it sounded a tiny bit demeaning.

"A few more months," she murmured, like a child anxiously awaiting her debut into adolescence.

He met her eyes. "And you'll be like me."

"I'm excited for it, but also nervous. Just think of how things will change."

"How so?"

"I'll be a citizen again. People will know my face. I do want that, but I'm afraid of how I can manage a decent cover without looking suspicious."

"I think it will be easy," Edward said thoughtfully. "The people around here trust Carlisle. However he chooses to introduce you, they'll believe him."

Esme suppressed a little flutter of anxiety at the thought of Carlisle introducing her to humans in the town. How would they go about doing that naturally? Would they use her given name or make up another one to be safe? How would she keep her thirst under control for long enough to carry on a conversation with a human?

There were still so many unanswered questions to sort through.

"I guess so," she said reluctantly.

"Hey," Edward poked her tenderly in the side, his face caring. "It's going to turn out fine."

She gave him a grateful smile. "That means a lot coming from you."

"Then believe it," he said softly, his resolution contagious.

A small rustling sound from behind caught her attention. "Squirrels," she chuckled. "Your favorite."

He wrinkled his nose and stepped aside, grinning. "You can have them."

******-}0{-**

She could have gone inside – the doors to the study had been open all morning. But Carlisle hadn't seemed to be working. She hadn't heard the familiar scratch of an ink pen or the folding of papers or the flipping of pages. Even more suspicious was the fact that it was already well past noon, but he still hadn't left for the hospital.

Pressured by her curiosity, Esme crossed the hallway just as boldly, and peered around the edge of the door.

He was sitting behind his desk, with his head bowed and his hands folded as though he had been lost in the throes of fervent prayer. His face tilted up as he heard her by the door, eyes blinking in surprise.

"Oh! I'm sorry," she squeaked apologetically, fumbling slightly as she turned around. "I'll come back later—"

"No!" he called with an awkward laugh, and he stood up, shoulders tossed back slightly as though to enhance his height. She paused in the threshold with her fingers clutching the door handle. "Come in, please." He motioned in welcome, and she took a few steps forward.

There was something so captivating in way he said the word _please_. His pronunciation of it was frustratingly light and tentative. He truly made it _sound _like a plea – like something no one in their right mind could ever dare refuse.

He was looking at her in a way that made her both thrilled and mildly uncomfortable – in a way his eyes were more open, more conscious – like it was the first time he had ever laid eyes on her. Just the faintest flicker of elation accented his gentle lips, but even from her fair distance, she could see it. It was evident in his eyes as well.

Suddenly she had forgotten why she had ended up here, in his study, across from him. It must have been something important…

His mouth opened precariously and he looked at her with a hopeful sort of curiosity. "Did you…want to talk about something?" he queried helpfully.

_Did_ she want to talk about something? Not in so many words.

But if words had been within her power, she would have spilled them all over him. She would have declared her profound infatuation, admitted to her obsession, and begged his compassionate acceptance of her, true body, true spirit, true soul.

No, perhaps it would have been a better idea not to talk. At least not about _those _things.

"I, um… I wanted to know when you were leaving today," she blurted awkwardly, not entirely sure where the words came from.

He raised his eyebrows and looked down, trailing his hand along the edge of the desk as he walked around it. "I'm not leaving; I called in ill. I was stretching my hours as it was," he explained lazily.

"Oh." She burned beneath her cheeks, mildly mortified.

He nodded several times, eyes crinkled in confusion, but Lord help her, that twitch of happiness was still there, tugging on the tiny corner of his mouth. His eyes lifted with a playful glint of displeasure. "Were you trying to get rid of me, Esme?" he asked warningly, the gentlest of grins betraying him.

"_No_." The word twisted its way through her lips – a cumbersome combination of a wistful sigh and a gasp of outrage.

She was very impressed that he hadn't mentioned how awkward a sound it was.

He instead strode the rest of the way up to her where she stood, and asked her with polite curiosity, "Why did you ask me if I was leaving?"

"I was just…concerned," she gave a shy shrug, stepping backward out of habit from his approach, "Because on any other day you would have left for the hospital by now."

She turned to face the windows, wishing for something more interesting to talk about, when quite suddenly it came to her. "Have you seen that it started snowing again?"

"Yes…" He smiled at the window. "Let's go out, shall we?"

He let her out onto the narrow porch where the snow was only a dusting beneath her feet. She immediately stepped down to where the grass would have been, finding the snow was now only a few inches above her ankles at most.

"Can you believe that just four days ago, this snow was up to my knees?" she laughed incredulously, kicking up little white clouds of glittery dust as she walked further into the yard, humming blissfully beneath her breath.

He only smiled weakly at her from the porch, one arm hugging the black marble column beside him. "Before you know it springtime will be here again," he said, his eyes looking longingly out to the frozen lake, most likely imagining it blue and sparkling again.

"And I'll no longer be a newborn," she added discreetly.

Something sad flickered in his eyes as he looked back to her. "No," he whispered, "you'll be like me."

She smiled. "Edward said the same thing."

"You spoke with Edward about this?" His voice sounded the faintest bit disapproving, and she flinched slightly.

"We were just talking about what will happen once I join society again."

Carlisle's expression softened in understanding. "Don't worry yourself over it now. When you're ready and the time is right, you'll know it."

She swallowed hard. "I hope so."

His smile widened. "I have a feeling you're going to surprise yourself."

She lowered her lashes to stare at the ground, a little bit warm from his flattery. "It's not that I'm not excited for it, but I do wonder sometimes, how that first time will feel…"

His face changed radically in that instant, his expression the most disconcerting cross between flustered and scandalized, with a sparkle of misplaced wonder in his eyes. She wondered what on earth she had said to make him look so bewildered.

"Sometimes I imagine that I'll be there, ready to take the next step and suddenly I'll want to run away," she added, trying to make him see her conundrum.

"I think you underestimate your own courage, Esme." His voice was raspy and strange. She thought she saw him shudder slightly as he cleared his throat, quickly composing himself with minimal effort before speaking softly, "But if you ever did feel the need to run, you know that you can always run to me."

A new warmth filled her from head to foot, far sweeter and heavier than the mild heat she had felt from his compliment before.

"It sounds almost as though you are _encouraging _me to run, Carlisle."

He raised his eyebrows in surprise then shook his head. "Not _encouraging, _I'm just...making you sure you are aware of your options. I would never want you to feel pressured into doing something you aren't yet ready for. You can take as long as you need to adjust to being around humans. There wouldn't be any reason to rush."

"I won't lie," she sighed, standing still in the snow. "It would be nice if it happened quickly for me."

"All you need is faith, and it will."

She looked up at him, seeking conviction. "And if I still want to run?"

He held her gaze unwaveringly. "There is no shame in having a safe haven."

His beautiful smile faltered as he looked down to her feet, then back to her face. Just from that brief little look, everything changed in his eyes.

Turning away with a tentative smile, Esme began to hum to herself as she kicked around in the snow, pretending not to feel the weight of his eyes on her. Eventually his staring got the better of her, and she had to turn around.

He was still leaning against the pillar, his hands clutching the smooth black marble while his eyes wandered almost sleepily over the scene in front of him.

She blinked up at him innocently. "Is something the matter?"

"No, nothing."

He did not shake his head as he said it, and somehow this made the words feel so much less truthful.

She cocked her head in challenge, and he stared back without a flinch. Slowly, his eyes warmed under her attentive stare until something in his face softened.

"You were humming that song," he explained sheepishly.

His smile grew as her body seized with the mortified chill of being caught. She hadn't even realized she had been thinking of the melody from her music box – it always seemed to push its way up from her heart to her throat, unconsciously.

"Oh, I hadn't even realized…" she admitted shyly.

He chuckled softly as he watched her draw circles in the snow with the toe of her shoe. "Perhaps you would sing it if you remembered the words."

She turned her head to face him fully in tingling surprise. He smiled at her knowingly from above, reaching one hand out to casually catch stray snowflakes in his palm.

"There were words?" she asked breathlessly.

"Yes," he answered almost lazily. He closed his hand over the snowflakes, looked down to see that they had still not melted, then brushed them away with a swipe of his other hand.

"And how do _you_ know this?" she pressed incredulously.

He rested his head against the marble pillar, mussing his hair slightly and making the smile that crossed his lips look sleepy. "Because you sang them to yourself when you were sixteen years old."

Her lower lip dropped open. "I once _sang_ that very same song?"

His eyes twinkled with distant fondness. "I'm afraid you were under the impression that I could not hear you… But as you now know my hearing is rather impeccable."

"Then you remember the lyrics," she breathed.

He nodded silently, and with that clandestine little smile on his face, she couldn't help but feel that he was teasing her.

"What are they?"

His head did not rise from its resting place, but in a slumberous voice he calmly recited the forgotten lyrics of her favorite song:

"_As I watched the sun go down  
I could not help but sigh  
While every bird above my head  
Spread its wings to fly._

_And as I listened to their song  
I wished that I could sing along._

_But I will never sing again  
Until my heart is free;  
For now I've seen  
My heart may be  
Forever lost at sea."_

It was rather like hearing the sound of birds chirping in the morning for the very first time after a long winter. His accented voice had the consistency of cream, and it did nothing to discourage the splinters of sweet warmth that punctured her heart.

How could she have ever forgotten? The words must have been embedded in her very soul, engraved like ancient script in a lost tomb. It seemed preposterous now, how she could have hummed those very notes, in that very order, and not have had the precious lyrics to match each one.

Carlisle stood there, still smiling his distant smile while she soaked in the glorious but fleeting bath of her childhood. The memories landed like snowflakes on her tongue – in an instant they melted and she could never hope to savor their flavor. They were whimsical and delicate and almost perfect, but they always left her with a chill.

"Now you must sing it for me," he said softly, and she truly could not tell if he was teasing or serious.

The butterflies from last spring must have hibernated inside her stomach all winter, for in the moment she caught a glimpse of his sincere expression, they burst alive within her, rendering her speechless.

As if she could ever dream to _sing_ in front of Carlisle.

In desperate defense, she only giggled at him, the sound so childlike and eerily flighty that she hardly recognized it as her own.

Why did she have a habit of making such strange noises around him?

"Now don't be so bashful. You _have_ sung it for me before, after all." His accent was particularly strong as he said this, and she had to wonder if he was aware of the influence he had over her when he spoke in that way.

"Yes, but I didn't know you were listening," she argued coyly, cupping the snow between her icy hands and crushing it repeatedly.

"Well, obviously I was," he said, his eyes following her every motion with amused intensity.

"Then you don't need to hear it again now, do you?" she reasoned with a mocking smile.

His face leaned further into the pillar it rested against, and for a brief, ridiculous second she thought he was going to kiss it. "But I _want_ to," he insisted silkily.

"Carlisle…" She drawled out his name in a sing-song tone, and it was frightfully appealing on her tongue. Saying his name that way made her feel so close to him. "I can't sing _in front of_ people."

"You wouldn't be singing in front of _people, _Esme," he reminded. "Only me."

She immediately turned her face away. The pleading pureness of his gaze made her feel so violated_. _

_Only him. _

She felt chills just from those two words put together.

"You know what I mean," she practically whimpered.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, and panicked slightly when she saw his pout. He knew so well how to play against her weaknesses. The flirtatious friction of their back-and-forth banter was killing her slowly.

"Please, Esme," he pleaded, the swift caress of his accent touching her name. "You had such a lovely voice then. I'm sure it's only lovelier now."

The butterflies were in her throat now, and even if she _had_ wanted to sing for him, their wings would have mangled the harmony of her vocal chords.

His compliment was so blatant, so sincerely delivered. She had to stop for a moment and stare at him, sinking in the golden quicksand of his eyes, before she could believe he had actually said it.

Where this would take her, she had no idea. Nor did she want to find out anytime soon.

Oh, but he was _so _hard to refuse...

"Well..." She pretended to consider just out of curiosity, to gauge his reaction.

His smile faltered only the faintest bit, but his eyes were at once as alert as an infant's, too bright to be real. He really did want to hear her sing.

Before she even considered the consequences of her words, her lips were moving again as she gazed up at him, her eyes reflecting his irrational adoration. "I suppose I could sing just a few verses."

He looked like he was about to speak, but he held his tongue, most likely concerned that the tiniest move might cause her to change her mind.

Before she could let her nerves get the better of her, she took a deep breath.

Singing came unbelievably easily to Esme now. No longer did she need to strain to find her way into the highest notes. Not one was off-key, everything was in harmony. And singing the song for the first time aloud brought an overwhelming warmth to her heart. She felt the melody embrace her like uplifting ribbons, and her voice held her aloft.

She smiled to herself as she pulled softly through the first several lines, delighted at the way the familiar lyrics were simply made for her tongue. That song was perhaps the first piece of home she truly felt in this new life.

Somehow she had not needed or wanted to stop herself once she had begun to sing. She had promised Carlisle a few verses, but she knew that she was too far gone for that now. She _wanted _to sing the entire song. Out loud. For him.

Her eyes turned up to regard him where he stood watching her, the smile on his face so contentedly brilliant, his eyes so piercing in their profound familiarity. She was pulled in by his captivating gaze, and it was not an exaggeration to claim that all of the snow around her had been melting, and the flowers blooming, and the birds were coming home with songs that sounded all the sweeter after a season of silence.

She was blissfully lost in the utter incredulity that he could have been looking this way at _her... _As if _she _were giving _him_ something that he was so impossibly elated to have. He had given her the means to sing that song and she had agreed to sing it back for him. It was perhaps the simplest, yet most beautiful expression of give-and-take she could ever imagine. How could she have ever been afraid of such a concept?

She allowed the last two notes to melt on her tongue, still trapped in the gentle pull of his gaze. She did not let her eyes wander from his immediately after, and magically, there was not a shred of awkwardness, just staring at him as he stared back. No words were needed. Nothing but a mutual tenderness swelled between them, completely obliterating the cold bleakness of their surroundings. It was like nothing else existed.

"That was not so mortifying, now was it, Bright Eyes?" he said with a youthful grin.

Of course it hadn't been _mortifying_. It was just the opposite, in fact. But she couldn't tell _him_ that.

He raised his eyebrows as if to emphasize his question, but she cleverly avoided having to answer him. With a shy, secretive smile she turned back to the fluffy white sea of snow, twirling slowly in the ankle-deep powder until a quick whiff of passing deer stopped her movement.

Her head whipped back in Carlisle's direction, seeking out his eyes, which in turn had been petrified into a sharp, sparkling black. His chest expanded with a deep, predatory breath and in a flash, both their instincts zapped into action, leading them after the same deer into the forest.

Esme only vaguely realized Carlisle was right beside her the whole time as she ran, so close that his arm was hitting against hers with every step they took. The moment of peace they had abandoned back at the house grew fainter in her mind, the hard desperation of the hunt consuming her willpower and forcing her to forget everything else.

They let the stubborn deer run for a while longer, some part of them enjoying the chase, prolonging their inevitable victory because it fed their need for predatorial power.

When they sensed that key moment of vulnerability, they both pounced on the animal at the same time from either side, nailing it to the ground beneath their bodies. Snow flew up in a cold white flash, settling to reveal the dead doe lying helplessly under their clawed hands.

It was never any easier to compartmentalize, this notion that she could be innocently singing in the snow and the next moment she could be hunched over a dead deer in the woods, ready to drink its blood. But the sting of having killed a living creature wore off much faster now than it had in the beginning. Watching Carlisle do it so effortlessly helped Esme overcome that insecurity.

He lurched forward, knee pressing into the doe's belly as he lifted its head. His hands were quick and firm as he snapped the neck, and the creature's wide black eyes went dim.

It did not hurt at all.

Esme wanted to sigh in relief, but she now realized the awkwardness of their situation.

They had both claimed the kill, so whose right was it to drink?

"Go on," Carlisle told her when he saw her concern, politely backing away from the animal.

Esme raised her head to protest. "But don't you—"

"Go on, I'll find my own," he insisted, eyes furrowed as he brushed the snow and dirt from his clothes and took a step back toward the shadowy forest.

"You'd have to run for miles. It's barren out here," Esme chimed, desperate to keep him near. He halted before taking another step further, and she watched his face turn ever so slightly at the sound of her voice.

"Neither of us is dying of thirst," she pointed out softly. Her chest clenched as an appealing thought crossed her mind, and in the next moment, that thought was an offer. "We'll...share it."

Carlisle turned fully to face her, a strip of cold white light leaking through the shadows to touch his forehead. His eyes darkened marginally as he looked down at the fat deer beneath Esme's hands, and he licked his lip.

"Alright," he gave in with very little hesitation.

Esme's mood brightened as Carlisle appeared swiftly at her side, kneeling on one knee in the shallow snow as he watched her searching hands hover over the animal's leg.

"She's so...heavy."

He nodded, but his face did not show much surprise. "The longer they're chased, the more their muscles build up," he explained as he experimentally felt its hind legs. "The blood gets warmer as well," he added. "It makes for a better feed."

Esme swallowed down her venom at his words. She hadn't realized just how much she had been craving a substantial feed since the winter began. Weeks of dining on squirrels and rabbits when she could dig them up was hardly satisfying compared to this. Perhaps Edward had been right after all.

But Carlisle had been denied just as much as she had through the winter, perhaps more because of all the time he spent at the hospital. He must have been desperately thirsty. She glanced up at him, and her thought was confirmed by the hauntingly black orbs that had blossomed beneath his pale eyelashes.

"You drink first," she offered shakily, even as her throat screamed in protest.

She half-expected him to dive down on the beast's neck, he looked so thirsty. But instead he raised his head to look up at her, brows knitted together in concern. "But the blood will be cold by the time I've taken my share," he said pityingly.

Esme opened her mouth to argue only to find that she had nothing to say. Her throat seemed to be doing all the thinking for her now. She feared a growl or something worse would escape if she even attempted to speak once the vein was cut.

She bit her lip in uncertainty, watching Carlisle's eyes flicker feverishly as he took in the details of the situation. She stared intently at his face while he thought, hoping he would raise a proper solution.

"Take the neck," he said at last, gesturing to the animal's head. "I'll take the hind legs... or better yet, the abdomen." His hand grazed the belly of the large doe, eyes darkening furiously. "We'll drink at the same time."

"You're sure?" Esme managed to ask, her voice disgustingly raspy.

"Yes, go on," he whispered, shifting on the ground to make more room for her.

Entirely unconcerned with what Carlisle was doing now, Esme eagerly lunged forward and slit the neck of the deer with her teeth. She had forgotten how delightful the feeling was – that sharp, splitting warmth that rushed into her mouth as her teeth sunk into the flesh. Its blood was like silk, and she had to fight to keep from moaning as the potently sweet liquid coated her tongue. She could feel the tiny hairs on her arms rise, a low hum in her ears, and the moist tickle of a drip of blood that slipped down her chin.

The satisfaction built up inside of her with every swallow, making it easier to focus on things around her. When the sweet surge settled at last, she lifted her eyes discreetly to watch Carlisle on the other side of their prey, her mouth still latched to the deer's neck.

As only a doctor would do, he was running his hand curiously over the deer's abdomen again. She was surprised he had not already begun to drink, but not disappointed. Now she could watch him when he took his first taste.

His dark eyes were narrowed as his fingers slowly explored the tawny fur, searching for the spot that would give most readily to a bite. Tentatively, he bowed his head when he found the place he was looking for and bit down on the protruding belly to drink.

Esme felt that first explosion of pleasure renew itself inside of her as she watched Carlisle's lips clasp onto the deer's flesh. She took a greedy swallow at the same time he took his first, reliving the ecstasy while she watched him. His beautiful black eyes shut softly as he tugged with his tongue, hugging the hind legs against his chest while he drank. Esme always found it erotic when Carlisle drank from any animal, but even more arousing was the sight of him drinking from the underbelly of a female deer while he clutched her legs.

Her breath came faster as he angled his head, allowing his teeth to sink deeper. The heady aroma of his venom, mixed with the scent of the blood, overwhelmed her senses to the point of incoherence. She could see the pearly droplets of silver and pink leaking from his lips, the wrinkles in his forehead smoothed into utter contentment when he finally broke the most generous artery. The muscles in his neck twitched and stretched with every swallow, releasing a gentle but sensual purr. He was exquisite.

Esme found her thirst heightening furiously from the sounds he was making. As instinct would have it, her own throat began to echo back the low song of satisfaction, drowning out his rippling groans with a distinctly feminine whimper of her own.

The blood was just a side course now. He was her real feast.

The most insane thoughts began to pepper into her head. Suddenly she was thinking of pouncing on top of him, sliding her bloody lips against his, pinning his arms to the ground, being violent with him because she perceived him to be so gentle. The desire to own him, to mark him in some way was stifling as she watched the muscles dance invitingly in his pale throat.

She wanted to bite _him. _

And for that split second, she did not even care about the consequences.

Carlisle's hands curled tightly around the doe's thick thighs, his body shuddering as the blood came gushing between his soft lips, his eyelashes flickering as if struggling to wake from a tempting nightmare. The quiet pulse of his every swallow filled her body with an intense, prickly heat. The rough pattern of his breath fueled the unbearable sensation, working her up to a precipice.

Esme was seconds away from breaking away from the deer, an inch away from reaching out for the man who was peacefully quenching his thirst, with the intention of cutting his neck with her teeth. He looked so tranquil, so strong and angelic, so delicately feral...

A bone snapped under the pressure of his clutching hands, and the sound had a swift whiplash effect on Esme's senses.

A disturbed emptiness came into Carlisle's half-gilded eyes as he suddenly lifted his head, backing away slowly from the deer carcass.

He looked positively petrified.

Having loosed the grips of her arousal by the look on his face, Esme jerked her head up to watch him intently as he stood on his feet.

"What is it?" she demanded worriedly.

He shook his head absently, the glazed look still fresh in his eyes. "Nothing, I'm just... I'm satisfied."

She was anything but convinced.

From the place his teeth had marked on the animal's skin she could see blood still gushing profusely, the scent from that space particularly appealing.

"You haven't even finished—"

"It's fine," he interrupted, too breathless for his words to sound as sharp as he had intended them to be. "Just leave it."

Esme narrowed her eyes at him as she ignored his suggestion, crawling closer to his abandoned bite mark. "But I'm not going to let it go to waste."

"Don't worry about it," he said, his voice frustratingly authoritative.

"I'm still thirsty, Carlisle!" she burst, shrill and forceful, her thirst making her irrationally irritable. "For God's sake, let me at least have the rest!"

"No, Esme!"

Ignoring his cries of protest, she boldly bowed her head over the ruby wound and touched her lips to the hot mark he had left in the deer's belly, preparing to drink.

_"Esme, don't!"_

The second her teeth sank into the flesh she knew something was wrong.

A shocking jerking motion startled her straight, her unintentional strength breaking the delicate bones in the deer's pelvis. From the belly of the animal spilled a slimy mess of red and orange fluid. It stained the pure white snow beneath it, the ice crystals melting from the heat – the result was repulsive and pulp-like, sticky and salty in smell.

In the center of the scarlet pool, protruding from the doe's bleeding womb, was the twisted head of an unborn fawn.

Esme clapped her hand over her mouth in revulsion and backed away from the horrific sight, anguished whimpers rising from her throat. Carlisle caught her in his arms as she blindly backed into him, holding her against his chest while she shuddered from the image of the baby deer's sickly eyes peeking out of its mother's mutilated belly.

"Esme... It's all right, darling," he was saying, his beautifully haphazard use of endearment rushing through one ear and out the other. "Don't look at it," he told her, sensing her morbid curiosity just before she turned her head for another glimpse.

"Please _don't look_, Esme," he said firmly, his hand disconcertingly strong as he forced her cheek to turn the other way. Her face collided uncomfortably with his shoulder, and she whimpered for him to release her. Her cries of agony only encouraged him to hold her tighter as he attempted to drag her along with him to escape the gruesome sight.

Her breathing was unreasonably hard, her head throbbing and her legs quaking uncontrollably, making it all but impossible for Carlisle to aid her in walking.

"Esme, please calm down."

Immediately after saying it, he realized his mistake. She hissed at him, her arm flailing upwards to try and find a good grip on the hand that was holding her face to his shoulder.

"I'm taking you back to the house, Esme," he said sharply, swatting her arm down before she could make her move. "Did you hear me? I'm taking you back."

His legs moved forward stubbornly, nudging her from behind as he struggled to walk with her pinned to his chest.

"It was still alive—" she moaned, her eyes blank, her tone distorted by anguish.

"Hush! Esme, I don't want to hear another word about it, now move!"

"But it was... so..."

"Esme!"

He shouted her name, and the chilling sound echoed in the empty woods as his arms swung her around to face him. His hands took both of her cheeks, holding her with surpassing gentleness despite the rough beat of his breath and the look of fury in his eyes.

It took just an instant for Carlisle to return to his calm, rational facade. His eyes softened when he saw the terror in her face, his fingers soothing her brow as he stared down at her pityingly. Now he was a heroic angel, blocking out everything behind him so that only the brightness of his face filled her field of vision.

"Look into my eyes," he ordered calmly. "It is dead now. They're both dead," he said, his voice disturbingly quiet.

"Did I kill it?" she demanded with a nasty shudder.

"Shhh. No. I did," he said abruptly, his hands squeezing her cheeks tightly to keep her from moving.

"But I was the one who—"

"It doesn't matter," he interrupted her smoothly, not a hint of agitation left in his voice. His unfailing gentleness reigned control, and for it she could not have been more grateful. "Shhh... it doesn't matter," he repeated as his hand swept through her messy locks of hair, drawing the strands away from her eyes.

His face was still so close to hers that she could see the subtle dilation of his pupils as his eyes lowered to her lips. She could feel them trembling beneath his stare, the sweet scent of the blood still rich in her breath.

Her eyes wandered searchingly over his face. His pale blond hair was unkempt, there was a rusty streak of blood on one side of his jaw like a delicate battle scar, and his own lips were stained a deep pink.

One of his hands left her cheek briefly to tug the cuff of his sleeve over his wrist and around his fingers. She watched curiously as he lifted his hand up to lick a spot of the clean white fabric, eyes never parting with hers as he lowered his covered fingers to slowly wipe the droplet of blood from the corner of her mouth down to her chin.

It was the smallest bit of his venom he'd left on her lip, but she would never forget the taste of it as it lingered by her tongue.

It was sweet. So, so sweet.

She closed her eyes as he murmured nonsense words of comfort, brainwashing her into a semi-peaceful oblivion. Little tremors still rippled through her body, but a swipe of his warm hands chased them away.

It was so still and so quiet that she could hear birds chortling a mile away. A sense of tranquility settled grudgingly over her, and she reached up to cover both of Carlisle's hands on each of her cheeks. Carefully he slipped them away, but she kept her hold on him when he lowered his arms.

A silent thanks passed from her eyes to his when she at last opened them to the light. His face was serious, but she could see the relief in his expression, how his face had smoothed from it.

He let go of just one of her hands to cradle her elbow instead, as he began to awkwardly escort her in the direction of the house. They walked slowly back home, his hand clutching her elbow the entire time as if keeping guard over a prisoner. Esme knew that he still did not fully trust her, but rather than agonize over it, she settled to see the good intentions behind it. She was too worn out to put up any more fights.

Times like these were ideal for depending on Carlisle. If she was not dependent on him, she supposed he felt that he had very little importance. As much as she wanted to find her own footing in life, he _was _her safe haven. And as he had said before, there was no shame in having a safe haven.

All he wanted to do was keep her safe.

"I honestly don't know if I will ever get used to this," she murmured in a hollow voice as they worked their way toward the brighter edge of the woods.

"You will," he sighed wearily. "You've just been having poor fortune so far. It isn't always so... gruesome." He winced, and she noticed his hand had tightened on her elbow. "You shouldn't have had to see that," he added quietly.

"Does it ever make you sad that they run away from us?" she asked him, apropos to their unfortunate prey.

He nodded gravely. "It did at first." His eyes lowered to the ground. "I don't let it bother me anymore."

"How do you ever find peace with something like that?" she mused out loud, confounded.

"It took me _years_, Esme," Carlisle emphasized patiently. "It took Edward months. For some it comes naturally and for others it does not. But we all must overcome our discomfort if we wish to survive."

It was that little end note of wisdom that persistently irked her. It was something he always did. That calm, profound statement he relied on to wrap up his remarks. He always found some sneaky way to make it impossible to argue with him. Usually it came in the form of a frustratingly wise final sentence.

This time, Esme tried her best to beat over it. "But they'll always run from me," she argued weakly. "I'll always be their predator... I hate that."

Carlisle slowed his already sluggish pace to stare at her. "In all fairness, a deer isn't likely to approach a _human_ with any less trepidation, Esme."

She grumbled inwardly again when he made a point. "But so many animals _enjoy _the company of humans," she moaned at the unfairness of it. "_Everything_ flees at the sight of a vampire."

"Not everything," Carlisle corrected.

She looked to him, her brow stretched with doubt. After stepping gracefully over a fallen log, he paused, standing in a shallow ditch so that he was staring up at her slightly. With the levels of power skewed, Esme felt oddly more at ease to look into his eyes.

"Do you know the only animals that are not frightened by us?" he asked, not waiting for her to shake her head before he answered his own question. "Butterflies."

She was not expecting the reply he had given. His accent made the word sound a little bit funny, and she felt her throat tense with a bitter giggle. She gave him a twisted look.

"It's true." He smiled gently.

"Butterflies? Really?"

He nodded.

"Why?"

He cocked his head in thought as he helped her over the ditch. "I never quite understood why... I think perhaps they're attracted to our scent."

She looked tentatively up at him. "So you're saying when the springtime comes, I can go outside and hope for hundreds of butterflies to swarm me?"

"That may very well happen," he said, half-serious as he led her out of the forest. His teasing smile forced her to smile just a tad in return, and warm feelings of ease began to slip over her previous misgivings.

It was still snowing lightly by the time they reached the front porch, the white flakes landing peacefully on Carlisle's fair golden locks. He brushed them off with an endearing shuffle of his hand through his hair before he opened the door to let her inside.

Esme distinctly heard the scamper of distant footsteps upstairs as Edward made his way to the attic. She narrowed her eyes up at the ceiling, wondering what on earth he could have been up to while they were gone.

"You know I have not forgotten that I've yet to give my _real _Christmas gift to you." Carlisle's soft remark startled her out of the pause.

"I thought that music box was very real," she replied wryly.

He offered her a charming smile, meanwhile hiding something timid in his eyes. "I promised to teach you how to carve," he reminded.

She certainly had not needed to be reminded of this fact. She wondered about it every day since he'd made the promise.

"Yes, you did."

His lips parted, then closed, then parted again, soft and unsure. "Well, I would like to fulfill this promise sometime soon." He stepped a bit closer to her, his tone quiet, his eyes searching.

"How about on New Year's Eve?" she proposed softly, eager to initiate something for once.

"Is that significant somehow?" he asked, a smile quirking on his lips.

"I think sometime around the beginning of a new year is a good time to learn something new."

"Naturally," he chuckled, an endearing sparkle in his eye. "All right then, New Year's Eve," he agreed, then his eyes at once turned curious. "Did you have anything in mind for what you'd like to carve first?"

Esme shifted, unprepared for the question. Instead of making up an answer on the spot, she decided the truth would be more wise.

"I hadn't really given it much thought," she admitted sheepishly. Carlisle, oddly enough, seemed somewhat pleased by this.

"Why don't you take a look through that sketchbook of yours?" he suggested, his smile gleaming as he stepped through the door to his study. "There might be something worthy of inspiration hidden in there."

She imagined what could have been his left eyelid winking at her just before he shut the door, leaving her to ponder his cryptic words in the hallway.

Like lightning, she sprinted back to her bedroom, tore open the nightstand drawer and withdrew the handwritten poem Carlisle had tucked inside the back page of her sketchbook. She smoothed it out onto the surface of the mattress with her hands, delighting in the splotches of chocolate brown ink that decorated the small piece of crinkled paper.

_I burn when I hear my name on your lips.  
My heart is swollen with sweet, troubled fires.  
You mumble something, and I suppose I am meant to listen,  
But all I can hear is my name _–  
_softly muttered at the very tail of the sentence, like an afterthought._

_There is such spirit in the way you say it.  
You are not calling to me, but rather to my heart.  
You have found the deepest place within me,  
And you have stroked it with your winsome tongue._

_Yours is the voice I long to hear every night,  
Yours is the face in which I find truth.  
Yours is the heart I wish to hold forever,  
For until I found you beside me,  
I had never truly lived. _

The handwriting was not particularly legible, but the words and the longing they held within them could not have been more clear. Whoever had written it was the keeper of a wondrous heart, she could be sure. A brief thought passed her mind as she scanned the page, wondering if it had been her own doctor who had written the mysterious poem.

She stroked the last line of letters with the pad of her thumb, looking to see if the ink had smeared at all, a hint to how fresh it may have been. Nothing stained her skin.

Though she was a bit disappointed, her relief outweighed it. It did not look very much like Carlisle's handwriting now that she thought about it; not nearly as neat or as curving as his was. None of those little stray spirals he sometimes added to the tails of his 'S's, or the distinct pool of peacock blue ink where he had pressed a little too hard on the period at the end of his sentence. Esme liked to believe she knew Carlisle's script well enough to guess when a note belonged to him. This particular poem did not meet all of the criteria...

Except for passion. Those words had passion, a passion she had caught dancing in his caring eyes so many times.

A gentle shiver fluttered from her forearm to the tips of her fingers as she set the poem down.

Carlisle could very well have some different colored ink stashed away in his study...

She swallowed and carefully closed the book, the beautiful words of that poem still swirling inside her head. Regardless of whether he had written it or not, Carlisle had known that this poem would speak to her. He knew her heart well enough to know that she could gather inspiration from something so heartbreaking and pure.

When Esme opened her eyes, she knew what she wanted him to teach her to carve.

* * *

**A/N: **_You can read Carlisle's POV of this chapter in __**Behind Stained Glass**__, Chapter 26: The Body is a Temple. _


	48. Seal this Contract

**Chapter 48:**

**Seal this Contract**

* * *

The days that passed between Christmas and New Year's were some of the most pleasant Esme had known in a while. Their household was filled with a unique warmth that all three of them had cultivated over hours spent together, sharing time, conversation, and good humor. It was an amazing thing, feeling as though she had always belonged with them. She, Carlisle and Edward were all but inseparable now. Every day showed her something new about both of them, and in turn they learned more about her. She had opened herself almost entirely to them in such a short time. It was overwhelming to her in the sweetest possible way.

New Year's Eve arrived with a dusting of freshly fallen snow and a sub-zero afternoon. It seemed the colder things became outside, the warmer Carlisle became to make up for it. On the last day of December, he invited her into his makeshift sculpture studio beneath the house for her much anticipated lessons in carving.

He'd prepared for her a setting down inside the wine cellar where he kept his collection of sculptures hidden from the rest of the world. It was like a secret lair one might read about in an adventure tale – a pirate's cove or an undercover burial tomb for a humble hero. The last time Edward had showed this room to her it had been lit only by the glow of a single lantern, but today Carlisle had placed candles in all the corners, on every spare surface he could find. He had tidied the room as much as possible, though it was still delightfully crowded by sculptures of wood and stone.

The area at which she supposed she was meant to work had been cleaned and organized, but the small, confined, dimly lit space beneath the ground was still intimidatingly intimate.

He had asked her to wear something she wouldn't mind getting soiled, and so she had settled on one of the short woolen dresses she had once torn while hunting. An unsightly rip up the side of the skirt revealed a fair amount of her thigh if she moved a certain way. She decided she would just have to keep wary of it throughout the evening.

When she came into the cellar she found him, dressed accordingly in clothes he obviously had no qualms about ruining either. The outfit he wore made him look much poorer than he truly was – a pair of faded fallow trousers and a loose, dusty-blue shirt that reminded her of something one of the farmhands back in Ohio would have worn while working.

He was wearing suspenders over his shirt, something she so rarely saw. It still felt strange to find Doctor Cullen in anything less formal than a sweater vest and tie. The casualness of his chosen ensemble made Esme feel slightly awkward for reasons she did not understand.

"Alright," he began softly as he turned around to face her, a teasing smile turning up his lips. "You've been keeping it from me all week now. What is it you're so excited about carving?"

As much as she had enjoyed torturing him with her secret, Esme was equally excited to share her ambitious plans with him at last.

"I want to carve hands," she told him wistfully.

Carlisle cocked his head curiously, and his own two hands rubbed together slightly in a nervous gesture. "Hands?" His smile was still in place, but it had softened somehow as she walked closer to him.

"Yes, but not just any hands," she clarified. "I want to make something very specific."

His eyes gleamed intensely as she came to stand in front of him. "Go on."

Biting her lip, Esme brought her hands up from her sides to demonstrate exactly what she had in mind.

"I want to make two hands, holding one another... sort of like this." She cleaved both sets of her fingers together loosely, the way a pair of people might hold hands while walking.

"That's a lovely idea," Carlisle praised with a small smile, "but it will be very challenging, especially for a beginner. Any form of human anatomy is never simple in structure. It is something I still struggle with in my carving."

Rather than let this discourage her, Esme seized it as an opportunity to impress him with her artistic motivation.

"I'm willing to take on a challenge," she assured.

He looked to her briefly in surprise, his gaze bright and pleased. "Then I am willing to teach it."

Both their heads turned suddenly at the sound of the wooden cellar doors being tossed open. A firm gust of icy wind whipped into the small room, and along with it stumbled a messy-haired teenager who was still in the process of buttoning up his shirt.

"Carlisle, I've decided on what I'm going to carve," Edward announced brightly, ignoring the shocked look of disapproval on his father's face.

"What might that be?" Carlisle asked warily.

"A squirrel."

Esme resisted the urge to snort with laughter.

"A squ—" Carlisle interrupted himself to look heavenward with an exasperated sigh. "Edward, honestly."

Edward, ironically, could not have looked more enthusiastic about his plan. "Yes, and then I'm going to give it to Esme since she _adores _her squirrels so much," he simpered cheekily in her direction.

Esme mirrored his silly grin, shaking her head at him from across the room while he hastily prepared his work table.

Carlisle took the hint that their little inside joke should be left alone. "Whatever suits you, son."

Edward made a face behind his father's back, causing Esme to erupt in a timid fit of giggles. Carlisle glanced warningly back at his son before gesturing for his pupil to follow him to the other side of the room.

"Come with me, Esme, I want to show you the different tools you'll be using."

She followed him to the table that had been set up for her, noticing the line of intimidating looking tools that were spread out on the surface.

"There are so many of them!" she exclaimed.

"Don't be overwhelmed," he said with a laugh. "You'll likely only be working with one or two for a while as you're just starting out."

Her eyes scanned the tools doubtfully as he picked up the first one in the line and said, "This is a rough-cut chisel, which you'll use most of the time. It scrapes the wood away rather easily so long as it has been properly sharpened." He felt the edge of the blade with his palm, and his brow furrowed in disapproval. "Hmm."

"Needs to be sharpened?" she guessed.

"It is a bit blunt," he observed. "Stand back for just a moment."

Esme followed his instruction and stepped back away from the table. She watched in fascination as he first poised the very edge of the chisel to lay above the face of a flat gray stone, then began to scrape it vigorously back and forth in effort to sharpen it.

The commotion had caught Edward's attention, and he now watched with arguably just as much interest from the other side of the room. Esme only wondered why the boy had felt the need to roll his eyes at what he was seeing.

"There," Carlisle said as he gave the newly sharpened chisel as look of satisfaction.

Esme saw Edward distinctly purse his lips to keep from smirking behind them. He went back to his work then, shaking his head idly as he resumed his own carving.

"Now what's this one?" she asked Carlisle, pointing to the next tool in line.

"This thin one is a detail knife – it's used for precision. You won't be needing this one until much later."

He patiently showed her the rest of the tools and explained the purpose of each. There was a mallet for breaking stone and nearly thirty other carving tools with bent metal rods sharpened to a point; some were curved and some where straight, others were hooked and bent into odd shapes she supposed were helpful for emphasizing various subtleties in the medium. It was an intimidating art, sculpting and carving. But that only made Esme want to master it more.

"What's in here?" she wondered, picking up a shiny, unlabeled jar on the end of the table.

"Wood polish. We use that to finish the piece."

She opened it and inhaled lightly. "Oh...my..."

"There's a reason we prefer to use it outside," Carlisle murmured in amusement, stealing the jar from her hand and sealing it tightly.

"Sorry," she mumbled sheepishly. But his smile was entirely forgiving.

"If you had still been human that may have caused you to faint," he said, his tone showing clear relief in the fact that nothing toxic could harm her now.

"But I would have had a doctor right beside me," she reminded him cheekily, patting his side.

He chuckled at her comment, but his laughter sounded different than it normally did – it was fainter, more breathy. His chest flinched back slightly where she had touched him, as if he'd been startled by her. She casually pulled her hand away without making a scene, feeling a tiny bit upset that he had shown the slightest aversion to her touch, even if it was unintentional.

She quickly distracted herself with the variety of stones that were displayed on the shelf by the table, reaching up to grab a smooth chunk of marble that had caught her eye. The particular un-carved piece was very heavy, but what she had noticed about it first was its color – an almost ethereal bluish-violet with pearly white streaks through it.

"This stone is so beautiful," she remarked, stroking her hands over the sleek surface. "Do you have any sculptures made from this?"

She knew she was delaying her lesson by asking him so many questions, but she couldn't withhold her curiosity for more than a minute. She still felt there was so much more to find out about _his_ art.

Carlisle seemed flattered to share more of his knowledge with her. "I do, actually." He eagerly made his way over to the cabinet in the corner of the room, and took from the bottom shelf a lid-less box that held a series of small, hand-cut stone dolphins.

"When I first came across the Atlantic to the States I was fascinated by them – the dolphins," he recalled, his voice misted with memories. "These were some of the first figures I made when I arrived here," he added, touching a reverent fingertip to the tail of the smallest dolphin in the group.

"I don't know how you do it," she marveled, lost in the beauty of his precious creations.

"You will once you start practicing," he promised.

"Can I work with this stone as well?" she asked hopefully, knocking her knuckles against the sturdy blue chunk of marble.

Edward coughed distinctly on the other side of the room just as Carlisle cleared his throat uncomfortably. "If you haven't decided on a medium yet, I would suggest using pine wood. It's much softer than the stone, more suited to a beginner," he said gently as he lifted the weighty stone from her hands and set it aside. "Not that you aren't strong enough to manage it of course, but those little details are going to give you trouble later on if you choose stone instead of wood."

"Oh." She tried her best not to look too desolate.

She watched as he bent over to reach underneath the work bench and retrieve a thick block of light-colored wood. He placed the block on the table and took some quick measurements before deeming it worthy of his approval.

"Now, how are you planning to carve these hands of yours?" he asked her bluntly.

Feeling as if he'd put her on the spot, Esme fished around to select a random tool from the table. "With...this?"

He laughed gently before pushing her hand back down. "No, I meant have you decided on a...position?"

She cocked her head in confusion.

"There are many different ways in which hands can be holding each other," he explained. "For instance..." He briefly demonstrated by clasping her wrist. "Like this."

A pleasant tingle curled around her wrist just before he let go to change the position. "Or this..." He then neatly cradled her hand in his, palm facing upwards.

"Or perhaps a bit more tightly, like...this." At last he firmly gripped her hand palm to palm, lacing their fingers together snugly like woven threads on a loom.

What had started as a pleasant tingle had burgeoned into a luminous throbbing – twisting and dancing in the unseen spaces between their hands. It simply seemed impossible that Carlisle could _not _have felt it. It was utterly cruel to consider that one person could experience this miracle while the other half had not even a taste of it. It was almost too wonderful to withstand once it reached its peak, and Esme felt the urge to cry for her beautiful doctor, entreaty him with her desperation and demand to know if he felt this just as strongly?

"I like this way best," she admitted in a husky whisper, her eyes still fixed on their linked hands.

It was at this point when she noticed Edward slinking up the steps to sidle out the cellar doors before the conversation could continue.

Carlisle did not even flinch at his son's departure; his eyes were welded to Esme's face. "Then it would be wise for you to look at our hands from every angle before you start carving them," he innocently suggested.

Oh...no, dear Lord... _What was he doing to her? _

Studying their hands as they held to one another was perhaps the most heartbreaking thing Esme would ever have to do. All the while she knew it would not last forever, but at the same time she longed to stay this way until the end of eternity – for their hands to remain glued together this way, fitting so perfectly, so tightly. It was torture, pure torture, to appreciate the way Carlisle's hand engulfed hers, both in size and in power. The contrast between the physique of his hand and her own was agonizing. His knuckles were thick and squared where hers were delicate and slightly knobby. The tone of his flesh had a slightly more golden cast to it while hers was more rosy. The curve of his palm was firm and tough but hers seemed to give against his touch, molding easily to the shape of his hand. Everything she noticed only seemed more and more perfect the longer she forced herself to look. The softness of his skin, and the generous pressure of his grasp, and the almost imperceptible twitch of his fingers as they held to her.

He had kept still as a statue for her while her eyes examined the potential subject of her art, but there came a fleeting moment where he decided to let his thumb slide over the tiny space of skin at the base of her index finger.

There was no excuse for that little, insignificant gesture. It would have been effortless for him to keep his hand frozen in the same position for a year's length of time and yet... He had consciously _chosen _to move his finger.

This bewildered her.

Little shots of delightful heat kept streaming through her fingers from where he held them. The warmth between their hands should have been impossible, but she could feel it residing there against the will of reason, _thriving_ within the confines of their tightly enclosed palms.

"Does that help?" he at last asked her quietly. His voice felt like a smooth wave of water washing over her ears.

_If anything, it certainly helped her heart catch fire._

"Yes..." She answered him waveringly. If his voice had been like a wave, then hers was the timid mist that clung to the crest just before it crashed.

Neither of them had moved to let go of the other's hand. Just as Esme had feared (and hoped), their hands remained glued together, fingers bound so firmly that it seemed they had been molded by the craft of angels to belong this way.

It was indecipherable, whose was the first hand to twitch away. By mutual necessity, they withdrew at the same moment, their unspoken reluctance sparkling between them like snowflakes in the heat of summertime.

"Thank you," Esme murmured, smiling tentatively. Her voice had sadly lost some of its strength as soon as their bond was broken.

Carlisle tilted his head forward in that curious half-nod, half-bow he often did, his eyes glinting with interest. "So...I've been meaning to ask. What was it that inspired you to carve holding hands?"

Esme turned around with a cryptic smile. "Something you put in my sketchbook," she drawled playfully. He raised his eyebrows, intrigued. "An untitled poem... _I burn when I hear my name on your lips...My heart is swollen with sweet, troubled fires._" The words escaped her lips with more ease and grace than she'd believed they could. Reciting such intimate phrases around him should have been daunting, but for some odd reason she felt completely comfortable.

But of course this was the safety of recitation.

"Ah, _that _poem." He ran an unsteady hand through his thick blond hair, looking like a bashful teenage boy whose mother had just been bragging about him in front of a crowd of people.

"You know the one I'm talking about, don't you?"

His eyes drifted conveniently away from her face. "Yes. I'm...familiar with it."

Esme giggled, her confidence climbing in response to his endearing awkwardness. "_How _familiar?" Secretly she hoped he would be tempted to recite the poem in its entirety – if he did, she had the feeling she would finally solve the question of whether or not it had been written by him.

"Enough to know that there is no direct mention of holding hands in that poem." He seemed a tad defensive, which surprised her. When she looked up to his face, she saw a faint shadow of agitation cast over his gentle expression.

"Well, it wasn't the words themselves that inspired the idea for hands," she sought to explain herself mildly. "It was more the emotion I felt from the poem, the desperation and the longing – the need to be cherished, to be held..."

Her words softly faded away, as if weighed down by the intimacy they carried.

"Desperation..." Carlisle repeated the word almost shamefully beneath his breath.

"...Is not a bad thing," she finished, smiling slightly as she peered up at him. "Not at all."

She searched his eyes to see if he would give her any hints, but the answer, it seemed, was already all over his face.

He must have written it. _He_ _must have..._

His eyes darted quickly to his hands then back to her face, renewed with unsteady confidence. His hair was still disheveled from when he'd pushed it back a moment ago, and she was tempted to reach up and tuck it back into place.

But her hands stayed securely at her sides.

"In fact I would say desperation is a beautiful thing," she continued, hoping to brighten his spirits somehow. "Our strongest emotions are often the ones that inspire the most powerful art."

He spared her a smile then – a bashful, fleeting, half-formed little smile that was so small she wouldn't have seen it if her eyes were not so inappropriately invested in his every expression.

Then he looked at the ground.

As the atmosphere simmered with lukewarm discomfort, Esme turned back to concentrate on the sizable block of carving wood he'd given her, listening to his tense breaths behind her for a few stifling moments.

She heard the sigh of fabric as he shifted his weight, little movements as if he were hesitating to step forward.

"Carlisle?" she tested.

"Hm?"

She stared at the block of wood with uncertain eyes, her hands hovering uselessly on either side, afraid to touch it.

"I honestly don't even know how to begin here," she admitted lamely.

He inhaled sharply as if caught off guard before hurrying to her side. "Oh—of course, forgive me."

There was no sight more reassuring than his hands taking charge of the tools on the table. His fingers selected the broadest chisel from the box and handed it to her. "You're going to want to start with this."

She warily accepted the tool from his hand.

"Alright, now just take the edge of the chisel and—" He closed his hand over hers and guided it forward so that a chunk of wood broke away, "—cut straight into the wood to shave it away little by little."

He slowly let go of her hand, allowing her to try it again on her own.

"Like this?"

"Just like that," he approved. "Now I've already measured the dimensions for this block of wood, and it seems just about right to fit both our hands inside. All you'll want to do for now is smooth the edges down until it's mostly rounded on the top, but keep the base flat."

"Erm...How long does this usually take?" she asked delicately as another dismally small chunk of wood peeled away.

"A long time," Carlisle answered. She could hear the strain of an enigmatic smile in his voice.

Esme sighed.

"Do you think you can manage on your own for a while?" he asked tentatively.

Although she preferred to have him hovering behind her the entire time, she knew she would prove more productive if he gave her some space. "Yes, I think I'm good now."

He backed away to leave her to her own work, taking the luscious heat of his presence along with him.

She listened as he walked back to his table, able to concentrate more on her work once he was on the other side of the room. However, the interior space was small enough that the lingering weight of his presence would have been unavoidable no matter where he was. There were times when she sensed his eyes on her – when she uttered a little gasp of exertion, or when she paused to blow away the excess wood shavings.

The task at hand was in no way a test of strength for her, however it was a challenge to keep from chiseling away too much at once. Patience was wearing on her already, but she had a feeling it had more to do with nerves.

It was impossible not to be distracted by him.

Any sound he made, whether it was a deep breath of air or the scrape of a chisel against wood was exhilarating to her. She listened avidly to him for several lazy minutes, suppressing little smiles whenever she heard him scribbling away notes for himself in his journal.

For the first time in a while, Esme allowed herself to glance at Carlisle while he worked. Although his back was mostly turned to her, a thrill of unexplained delight struck her at the sight, in much the same way it had when she'd first caught him carving out in the snow. It was the way his hands moved – with such concentrated grace, such assertive finesse. Each stroke he made with the sandpaper was the definition of passion – a rough, grazing rhythm as his arm moved back and forth, as if he were playing a vigorous sonata on a cello.

She wanted to turn away, but her eyes found it tragic to part from such a beautiful sight. For as much as it stirred her feeble heart, watching him brought her a sense of deepest peace in a place she never knew existed within her. It was something tender and calming, something that watered the bud of a fond, sleepy smile on her lips.

After three or four strokes of the sandpaper, he would blindly reach for his pencil and scratch something in the margins of his notebook. It appeared he couldn't work without becoming inspired to write every three seconds. He must have had something quite compelling on his mind, and that something was consuming him wonderfully.

As soon as he set the pencil down, he wasted no time before diving back into the piece he was carving. His hands were restless – never pausing for an instant – he was so delirious with inspiration. His right arm moved about in a graceful but euphoric kind of frenzy as he worked, seeming to move with more gusto the longer she stared. She wondered then if he could feel her gaze on him as well as she could feel his.

The movement of his arm subsided at last, a long sigh leaving his lungs as he slowly turned around.

That was when she noticed the buttons. All three of them, undone at his collar.

She had always had this silly assumption that the second button was as far as he would go. It was enough an expression of boldness when Carlisle _did _decide to loosen the buttons of his collar at all. But he _never _undid the third one down. Until now.

It was not only this that puzzled Esme to no end, but the question of when and – more importantly – _why _he had done it.

There was no precedent to explain it, no heat to excuse it, no reason for it at all. She knew the golden pendant of his Christianity resided there, whether he left his collar open or not. Did he want to remind her of its presence? It was the only explanation she could fathom. Unless...

His head tipped up suddenly before she could prepare herself, and their eyes met with a silent crash. Her thoughts fled instantly at the stunning innocence that shone in his humble face. Whatever his reason, it would not have been inspired by vanity. With an expression like that, it was all but impossible.

Yet the effect he had on her was vivid and harsh.

He smiled solemnly at her, and as his eyes were drawn down to appraise her work, hers were drawn straight to his neck. His bare skin appeared smooth as soapstone beneath the parted fabric, his sturdy collarbone providing a bed for the small cross he wore. That cross was no bigger than the size of her thumb, yet it was positively radiant in the demure streaks of candlelight as he moved.

She found that she wanted nothing more than to reach out and let her fingers clasp it.

If this had been his intention all along, his initiative had proven a success.

"Do you need help?" he finally asked. His voice was mostly soft, but she noticed a pleasant roughness to it.

"No, I was just...taking a break." She shrugged, watching as he rubbed a cloth over the hidden object in his hand. "What have you been working on?" she asked curiously, stepping closer to his table.

"Oh, this is an elephant's tusk." He unveiled the stunning ivory crescent for her to see. "I've been sanding it for a few days now, mainly for aesthetic reasons. I'll be polishing it today. It will look much nicer after I do."

"It's beautiful."

He gave her a quirky smile. "I'm surprised you think so. Not many people would think of this as beautiful."

"Not many people are artists," she supposed.

He shook his head. "I don't think it is simply because you're an artist."

She raised her eyebrows in question and he attempted to explain.

"You appreciate its simplicity, its...well, purity, I suppose."

She smiled appreciatively. "You know me well."

"I'm beginning to _see_ things the way you do, I think," he reflected, his eyes filled with fervor.

Her cheeks blazed at his subtle flattery. "It's strange to think I could have an influence on you in that way," she admitted.

His smile at once faded. "Why do you say that?"

"I don't know. I guess I've always thought that, because you've lived for so long and had so much time to develop your own view of the world that nothing anyone else said could ever change it." Her fingertips idly swept away at the sawdust on the table while she spoke.

"Pardon my saying this, Esme, but that could not be further from the truth," Carlisle countered gently. "It may surprise you, but I've yet to live a single day of this life without learning something that has changed the way I think. My fundamental beliefs remain the same – that is something I hope will never be swayed – but you'll find that as the times change you learn to grow _with _the times instead of bearing against them."

The strength of his words encouraged her eyes to lift reluctantly. She saw such life in his expression, such bright hopes in his eyes. It made her ache.

A light smile returned to his face. "Along the way you will discover many things, meet many people, and go through countless experiences that will ultimately shape who you are for years to come."

With a sigh she turned away from him again, ashamed that these promises for the future still sent her worries aflutter.

She found the confession tumbling forth in a single quiet breath. "This frightens me. Becoming a different person."

Her heart rose up into her throat as she heard him leave his table to come up behind her. "You've already made it through the greatest change of all," he said softly. "Everything from this point on will only enlighten you, enrich you for the better."

She could hear it in his voice that he wanted her to turn around - expected it, even. But he would never say this out loud. It was up to her to decide whether or not she could meet his eyes.

"Not all change has to be frightening, Esme," he added even more gently.

"It is the fear of the unknown that weakens my heart," she sighed woefully, surprised by the unintentionally poetic flow of her words.

Carlisle clearly noticed it as well, and he chuckled. "You're beginning to sound like me."

His charming humor infected her to turn around and face him with a smile. "I like the way you speak."

He shook his head modestly. "Sometimes it can be conspicuous. I was absolutely awful just a few decades ago. It wasn't until I started conversing with Edward daily that I began to adapt...well, with the accent, and...everything." He gestured sheepishly to his throat and looked down at the table with a half-wince. "When I first met him, Edward told me I sounded like Macbeth," he added beneath his breath.

Esme covered her mouth, but failed to keep from laughing.

"Even bedridden with the influenza, he had an impressive sense of humor," Carlisle recalled fondly. His smile twisted a little sadly at the unspoken memory.

Hoping to cheer him up, she confided, "Your accent was one of the first things I noticed about you when we met, too."

He blinked a few times, but she could not find a significant change in his face. "That is because I wasn't trying to hide it from you," he stated simply.

"Did you often try to hide your accent from your patients?" The question was laden with hope.

"Yes," he replied quickly, shamefully. "But with you I felt...comfortable. Unthreatened."

There it was: that inevitable spark of intimacy creeping upon them like the midnight tide. Sometimes it rolled in unexpectedly and drowned them. Sometimes it simply teased their toes then retreated back into the ocean of hidden desires.

One of these days, perhaps, they would find themselves submerged. But not today.

She smiled at him, and he smiled back, and it was as if nothing that had been said had any effect on them.

"Help me smooth this edge?" she politely requested, hands roaming back to her unfinished block of wood. He came up behind her and took hold of the tool in her right hand, guiding it over the choppy curves of pale wood that she had attempted to chafe away.

"Just like this... See?" he murmured over her shoulder, his breath igniting the hidden blush on her neck.

"Mm hm."

Just as she began to wonder what use he'd found for his other hand, she felt it come to rest upon her left shoulder. The simple gesture spoke volumes: as a sign of understood affection, of closeness. It was this closeness that made her feel so small beside him, engulfed by his height, surrounded by his imposing presence.

His hand started to let go of hers, assuming she had picked up on the technique by now.

She had.

But he didn't have to know this.

Purposefully, she worked the tool from a slightly crooked angle so that he would need to correct it by claiming her hand again.

"Ah-ah-ah."

"Is that wrong?" she questioned coyly.

"You're holding it like a paintbrush," he observed, his voice laced with tender amusement.

"How should I be holding it?"

"Your fingers should be...hugging it." His choice of word made her flush and fight the urge to giggle. "Use all of them, not just your forefingers," he told her patiently, rearranging the fingers of her right hand around the handle. She was strongly reminded of the time he'd taught her how to hold a bow and arrow.

His hand was all over hers by the she found a proper grip; each of her fingers had been smothered by his touch. Watching his hands now made her recall how careful and full of finesse he'd been when he healed her leg so long ago. He'd never lost that precious patience in his touch. Esme was so caught up in the distant memory that a part of it slipped out unintentionally from her lips.

"Poor child," she whispered beneath her breath.

His hand stopped moving along with hers.

"What did you say?" he asked, his voice mottled and husky above her.

"Poor child," she repeated quietly. "Those were the first two words I ever heard you say."

"Remarkable that you can remember that," he murmured, soft and stunned.

"It's been one of the few details that I've never forgotten," she marveled. "I can still hear it in my head, clear as day."

"Well, you're certainly not a 'poor child' anymore," he said as he resumed the joint motions of their hands. "You're a very strong, very intelligent, very gifted...woman."

She noticed that he had whispered the last word as if it hurt him to say it. His presence at once felt warmer behind her, and his hand felt heavier as it guided hers, gently scraping away at the rough edges of her work She wanted to thank him in some way for the deliriously generous compliment, but she could hardly find her voice.

"You're doing wonderfully." He sighed as he finally let his hand slip away. "Just... keep going with it."

He went back to polishing the elephant tusk, and they spent the rest of their time together in thoughtful silence. Every now and again a candle would burn out from the cold, and Esme would stop what she was doing to watch as Carlisle moved to nurse the fallen flame back to life. His fingers were tender with the match stick, his eyes filled with a gentle wonder as he touched fire to the wick.

She wondered if her eyes looked anything like that when she looked at _him._

The room was thick with inspiration while they worked, each of them lost in their own artistic world. There was an intensity to carving, an almost methodical hypnosis that one fell under while chiseling away for hours. It was a painstaking process, making something out of nothing. And it was such a delicate craft that the shortcut of a vampire's speed was useless; much like oil painting, working any faster than natural would ruin their work.

Esme became so absorbed with working this way that the soft intrusion of Carlisle's voice startled her. "I have some telephone calls to make before I begin my shift this evening," he politely informed her, dusting his hands off with a cloth as he made his way to the cellar stairs. "You're welcome to stay here for as long as you like and keep working."

She bit her lip in consideration, suddenly seeing all of the flaws that needed fixing in her work. "I think I'll stay for a few more hours."

"Good." He smiled. "I'll see you in a little while."

Her eyes stealthily followed him as he made his way up the stairs two at a time, and she thought she saw him shiver as he opened the door and stepped outside.

Without him the room felt dismally empty. He hadn't chosen to leave her alone; he had work that needed to be done. He was not abandoning her for any reason other than that and yet... It was becoming more and more difficult to be apart from him.

Esme felt an irrational, unjustified urge to cry. It would have felt so wonderful, she thought. Just a few tears to burn beneath the lids of her eyes, just that sweet sting in the corners before they spilled down her cheeks. As usual she was longing for something she could not have.

Just as she was beginning to feel unbearably lonely, Esme heard the distinct hum of Edward's deep voice approaching the cellar. Conveniently, he'd found it an appropriate time to reunite with his unfinished artwork. She smiled gratefully at him when he came to join her, a look of kind understanding on his bright young face.

"Carlisle says you're really doing well so far," he remarked.

"So_ far_," she repeated with emphasis, giving her mutilated block of wood a critical look.

He simply shook his head, smiling.

After a while of working, Edward's wooden squirrel was looking more ferocious than it ought to. Esme couldn't help but giggle relentlessly at the mutant looking animal he had attempted to carve.

"It almost looks like a lion," she observed.

Taking a step back, Edward surveyed his work. "You're right. Maybe I should take it in a different direction."

"You should," she agreed. "Make it into a lion."

"Won't you miss your squirrel, though?" he asked with a smirk.

"I like lions, too."

"How do you know if you've never tasted one before?"

She shoved him playfully. "Get back to work, Mister."

"Oh, I've got some news to share with you," he said suddenly, a secretive gleam in his eye. "Something I know you'll be excited about."

"What's that?"

"Last year on New Year's Eve there was a fireworks display on the other side of town, and I watched the entire thing from the roof of our house," he said. "I've been listening around in the market today – they're doing it again this year. Same place, right at midnight."

"Can we watch them from the roof together?" she asked excitedly.

"That was the idea."

She dropped her tools on the table and hugged him. "Oh, Edward! That's brilliant!"

"It's not like _I _was the one who organized it," he laughed. "I just find out about these things."

"Does Carlisle know?" she asked hesitantly.

"Not yet..." Edward looked as if he were trying to withhold a smirk. "Why? Do you want me to invite him?"

She avoided his question with one of her own. "Didn't he watch the fireworks with you last year?"

"He had the night shift at the hospital last year. Couldn't make it."

Esme looked at the ground.

"I'll let him know," Edward promised. "I'm pretty sure he's taking the night off this year."

"I hope so. It wouldn't be right if he had to work on Christmas _and _New Year's." She didn't bother hiding her disappointment.

Edward smiled reassuringly as he nudged her shoulder. "I'll _make_ him stay," he said furtively.

"Don't do anything...inappropriate," she warned.

But he was already chuckling his way out the door.

******-}0{-**

Five minutes later Esme heard Carlisle's voice calling from across the property.

"Dash it all, Edward! What have you done with the throttle valve from my carburetor?"

"Oh, you're so sure it was _me _who took it?" Edward snapped back, a grin evident in his voice.

"I'm a right bit sure Esme wouldn't touch anything under the hood of my car!"

Esme immediately dropped what she was doing and headed outside, where she bumped into Edward on the back porch.

"Edward, don't make him angry!" she hissed, though she was giggling against her will.

"Trust me, he's not angry," Edward said surely. "He would have said 'what _hast thou_ done' if he were angry."

Carlisle's voice was stronger this time inside the house. "I can _hear _you, Edward."

"You know, it's fairly common for engines to fail in sub-zero degree weather," Edward called through the window. "I'm sure the hospital will understand. They do specialize in emergencies, don't they?"

Before Edward could justify his sarcasm, Carlisle opened the door to the back porch and found the pair of them scheming in the snow. He tilted his head as his eyes fell on them, like a disappointed father awaiting an explanation from his unruly children.

Edward spoke before his father could. "I just wanted to give you an excuse not to work tonight," he said innocently. "Esme agreed it was unfair that you had to leave for two holidays in a row. You should be spending time at home with your family."

At this, Carlisle's face softened.

"So you'll stay here with us tonight, won't you?"

Esme was certain that Edward's pouting face had sealed the deal.

******-}0{-**

"It's getting awfully close to midnight, Edward. Are you sure they're going to show the fireworks this year?" Carlisle asked doubtfully after a third glance at his pocket watch.

"Why, Carlisle, I'm surprised at you. Are you suggesting I would lie about this whole thing just to trick you into staying home tonight?"

They both smirked, Edward in doubt and Carlisle in amusement.

"That would be what I am suggesting, son."

He exchanged glances with Esme.

"Will you both just relax? The fireworks don't start until midnight _on the dot_," Edward emphasized, reaching over to poke Carlisle's pocket watch.

Carlisle pulled the tiny golden device away protectively and hid it beneath his vest.

"Ahh, I love it up here," Edward heaved an exaggerated sigh, sitting back against the chimney with his hands behind his head. He was acting incredibly odd lately.

"There's snow everywhere," Carlisle remarked mildly, brushing away the white powder from where he sat.

"It won't kill you," Edward said matter-of-factly.

Carlisle looked imploringly toward heaven.

Esme smiled to herself and attempted to settle things down. "I don't mind the snow so much," she said agreeably. "The view from up here is lovely, Edward. I'm happy you thought of it."

Edward smiled in smug appreciation. "Just wait until midnight comes, then you can thank me."

From the corner of her eye, Esme saw Carlisle slip his pocket watch discreetly out of his vest to check the time again.

Edward was not very happy about it.

"Carlisle, I swear to God, if you look at your watch one more time, I _will _kick you off this roof."

Esme lost control of her giggles while Carlisle sighed in apology.

"In fact, I think I'm going to let Esme confiscate that from you and wear it for the rest of the night," Edward prompted. Esme glanced back at him in question before quickly grabbing the pocket watch from Carlisle's open hand.

She kept it tightly sealed between her hands, biting down on her grin while she watched Carlisle's fingers close up in surrender.

He turned his hand over on his thigh and that was that.

He gave in rather easily when it came to her.

"Well, this is taking too long," Edward said suddenly, standing up to brush the snow from his pants.

"Where are you going?" Carlisle demanded, his voice worn thin with defeat.

"Inside," Edward answered simply. "Maybe I'll do some research on ancient New Year's traditions or something _constructive_ like that."

"You'll be coming back, though, won't you?" Esme asked desperately as he stepped around them toward the edge of the roof. She almost considered reaching out to grab hold of his ankle to keep him from leaving.

Edward shrugged noncommittally. "Maybe."

Carlisle sat up a little straighter beside her.

Just before he jumped, Edward turned halfway around and casually asked, "Isn't it, uh, good luck to kiss someone on New Year's Eve? Or something like that?"

Esme froze, too afraid to glance at Carlisle to see how he had reacted to this unprecedented little remark.

Edward conveniently left them with his words hanging in the air. "Silly rituals," he snorted in amusement. In one swift jump he abandoned them on the rooftop, heading inside the house.

Following Edward's abrupt departure, there was a long, drawn-out silence during which nothing but the tick of Carlisle's pocket watch and the nearby nocturnal woodland animals had the courage to interrupt. Then, out of nowhere, Carlisle stabbed the silence with a single, soft-spoken sentence.

"The Romans used to kiss on the Winter Solstice to bring about good fortune."

"Is _that _where it comes from?" Esme feigned an intense scholarly interest, moments later regretting that her cover may have come through as being painfully obvious.

But Carlisle seemed quite unaffected by her exaggerated enthusiasm.

"Mm hm. From my understanding, anyway," he said. A note of endearing shyness filled his voice as he turned his eyes to the clear night sky and sighed. "Although the English superstitions differed somewhat."

She didn't have to feign genuine interest this time. "Oh?"

"Yes..." His fingers began to twist subconsciously in his lap. "Some believed that the first person you saw when the bells chimed at midnight would be the answer to your happiness for the year to come."

Her own fingers began to fiddle idly with his confiscated pocket watch as she hung onto his every word. It was a romantic notion, no doubt, and one that she found shamelessly intriguing. "That's lovely."

"Hmm—" a quick chuckle interrupted his words "—yes, I suppose... but Edward is right. It is just one of those silly legends."

"I wonder why it became a tradition to _kiss_ when the clock struck twelve," she wondered forwardly. Her eyes glanced sideways at him just in time to catch his head turning towards her.

Her heart surged forward inside her chest as he caught her eyes, the intimacy of his gaze shameless and stifling, reflecting the stars.

"The kiss..." he said the words reverently, like one might murmur in the vestibule of a church. He looked down thoughtfully and started to explain, "Well, in Ancient Rome, a kiss between two people was a way to seal a contract. Kissing someone on the first day of the New Year served as promise that one would be there for the other until the end of that year."

She could see the little shapes he was drawing with his index finger, using his own palm as a tiny canvas. His finger repeated the same nonsensical, swirling pattern, as if he were tracing a complex arabesque on the wall of a mosque.

Then he looked up from his invisible artwork to stare deeply into her eyes. "Will you be here for me until the end of this year, Esme?"

His question was so startlingly simple that it caught her off guard. She nodded idly, somehow able to find meaningful words in her flustered state. "And hopefully far beyond it."

He smiled – slightly crooked to one side of his mouth, as if unsure of whether he had meant to smile or not – and he lifted one finger to her cheek. His touch was frustratingly light, shy, and careful.

Somewhere below them, the grandfather clock in Carlisle's study struck its first chime for midnight.

The pocket watch Esme grasped tightly in her hand seemed to burn with promise as it ticked innocently away. Carlisle's eyes fell briefly to her hand, then back to her face as the second chime sounded...then the third chime...then the fourth.

The first firework slipped soundlessly through the sky, a muffled gunshot in the background of their confined little world on the rooftop. The fleeting glow of the firework's trail showered golden spears of light across Carlisle's face. Each color that burst in the sky lit up his skin – soft, multi-colored – like reflections off a peaceful pool of water.

She'll never know what possessed her to say it.

"Would you like me to seal this contract?"

His lips parted, sending a silent question adrift into nothingness. His innocent eyes went wild with something shining and stripped; the sheer _strength _of his eyes was never more clear than it was at this moment. They had all but blackened with the bistre of changing emotion, questioning but at the same time entirely _certain_... of what, she knew not.

"If I am to have your word," he said, his voice deep but fragile.

That was it.

He had just whispered his consent.

All at once Esme was seized by fear, in utter disbelief that she was about to take his lips. But the thought seemed too good to be true, that it would be sinful to partake in this man's kiss, mouth to mouth. They were not lovers, and they were not even formally courting. All they had was this... strange, unclear, confusing, delirious sort of attraction that may or may not have been as strong from both sides.

She could not do it. The courage was draining from her the longer she stared into his eyes, the thrill was overriding her nerves the longer she lost herself in his small, soft pink lips.

She could not kiss him.

But the thought of _not _kissing him, at this point, seemed even more sinful.

She had promised to seal this contract, and she would carry through. There was no turning back.

For one more year, this was her promise – that she would remain by his side. She wanted nothing more, and he wanted nothing less.

She _would _do it. She would kiss him.

Before she could slay the urge, Esme reached out to cup Carlisle's face in her hand. As if in slow motion, her fingers pressed one by one around his jaw, languid streams of electricity shooting through her arm as each fingertip came into contact with his smooth skin.

His eyes closed as her warm touch enveloped the side of his face, surrendering to the blissful unknown. He trusted her entirely. She was in control.

Complete control.

It was the smoothness of his cheek that was calling to her in that moment. As the clock reached its eighth or ninth strike, her mind flared with the shock of what she was about to do, and her lips changed their course. They instead came to rest in that soft white space beneath his regal cheekbone, lingering until she felt that she had offered him enough warmth to ensure her promise.

Relief. Joy. Disbelief. Then joy again.

It was overwhelming, the power she felt from such a chaste touch of her lips on his cheek.

Her lips did not want to leave this sacred little place they had found on his face. The tenth chime of the clock sang sweetly for her ears. The eleventh. The twelfth.

Her heart shuddered with reluctance, but her body was flowing with a fiery jubilation as she allowed her lips to part from his cheek, her eyes seeking the same emotions from his expression.

"Now we shall be together until the end of this year," she said resolutely as a pair of red and gold fireworks splashed across each other in the sky. Her fingers caressed their way lightly down his jaw until they let go.

Carlisle looked down at her, and beneath the flashing colors she allowed her eyes to sojourn the fascinating landscape of his face. Her initial thought was that he looked slightly shocked, perhaps a bit overwhelmed... But as she looked closer she could see a gleaming shield of sadness overshadowing the sparkle of pleasure in his eyes.

"Carlisle?" she whispered his name, frightened that if she had said it any louder, he would shatter. He looked so _fragile._ "What is it?"

"It's nothing," he shook his head distantly, his gaze slipping away. "I'm... It's... Nothing."

His head bowed in shy defeat. She lifted two fingers to her lips in confusion, worried with wonder over why her kiss had seemed to spark such severe sadness in him.

Then she realized.

Such an intimate gesture had to have been _so rare _for Carlisle.

It was rare for her, even. But for someone who had lived for hundreds of years without so much as an embrace.

It may have even been his first.

Her joy sank into pity, and the two mixed together in a most bittersweet little concoction. With kind eyes, she took Carlisle's hand in hers and held it as tightly as she could.

As she'd hoped he would, he peered up at her from beneath his furrowed brow, a gentle rain storm of apology and gratitude hidden in his eyes. They shared a deep, meaningful stare for a minute or two, as the fireworks whistled and crackled blissfully above them.

His eyes lowered to their linked hands, and his chin trembled ever so slightly at the sight. He had such a strong emotional response to what had just happened between them, and it was a beautiful yet agonizing thing for her to witness. She wanted to heal him in some way, to let him know that she understood him, and everything was fine. But she was without words.

"Come here," he finally told her, pulling her close without permission. He knew he didn't need it.

He tucked her tightly against his side, drawing his strong arm around her and pressing her hand to his chest. His pocket watch accidentally slipped right back where it belonged, just inside the pocket of his vest. It ticked away happily into the new year, attempting to provide a substitute heartbeat for the man who wore it.

"I'm sorry," he whispered shamefully, "for...reacting that way."

"I know why you did," she assured him with quiet fervor, stroking her palm up over his heart.

His hand grasped hers tighter as he sighed heavily. "I've spent ages without being touched this way by another person."

Her entire body became feverish with intense sadness for him. She nudged her head forcefully into his neck, sharing as much closeness as possible to ensure him that those years were long gone.

"You don't need to be ashamed for it, Carlisle," she reminded him gently. "You know I will understand."

"I know that," he confided. "I just... didn't expect to be so affected by it."

Beneath her breath she whispered, "_Neither did I_."

All this because of a single kiss on the cheek.

Whether it had been received in fair whim or not, he would have the promise she ensured by its seal.

Esme smiled against the shoulder of her angelic refuge and sighed as her eyes rose up to the sky. Each firework started as a slim red line of light when it leapt off the ground, then when it reached its peak it would blossom into a dazzling rose of colors, its fading embers showering down like a monsoon of glitter. But one firework sped upwards in the sleek sky, a single pitiful spark that reached its peak unseen, never exploding to show its colors.

"Did you see that poor firework?" Esme asked in an urgent whisper, tugging Carlisle's jacket and pointing to the corner of the sky where it had disappeared. "It went up, but it never burst. We never got to see what color it was."

His arm drew her slightly closer, and leaning down he said furtively into her ear, "You know, I've heard it said that when that happens, you ought to make a wish and it might come true."

She smiled. _He knew exactly the things to say to her._

"Do you really believe that?" she asked him dubiously.

"I don't know. I've never made a wish on a firework before," he said, inspiring a small laugh from her, which he shared bashfully.

They watched and listened to the brilliant display for a few moments in content silence before she spoke aloud.

"I just wished for something, Carlisle."

"Will you tell me?" he whispered almost desperately against her hair.

"I wished that this year will be much brighter than the last," she replied quietly with a smile.

His eyes sparkled warmly back at her.

"I have a feeling your wish will come true."

Together their heads tilted up to watch the last riot of fireworks explode in the grand finale. After the deafening thunder had faded, the night returned to its icy silence. Imprints of the fireworks had been left behind in the black canvas of the sky, raining trails of pink and brown smoke that were lovingly smeared by the eastern wind.

But the fireworks she felt from kissing the man beside her lingered on well into the night.

* * *

_**A/N: **_

_Aren't we so proud of Esme for taking charge and kissing him? :) But what was going on with Carlisle? It appears he's still pretty torn over some things right now. __**You can read his side of the story in "Chapter 27: Wishing on Fireworks" in Behind Stained Glass.**_


	49. Where Art Thou Going?

**Chapter 49:**

**Where Art Thou Going?**

* * *

The more Esme worked by the light of candles, the more she grew to appreciate their company. In the cold stony depths of the wine cellar where Carlisle kept his sculptures, she found herself becoming fonder of the gentle glow of several golden flames. She could understand why Carlisle preferred it. The lights given off by candles appeared as though they were dancing, providing the essence of a silent company by which to work. She could imagine how Carlisle would appreciate that warmth and liveliness from the flicker of fire, feeling as though another being were sharing the room with him even when he was alone.

As she worked, her mind would wander as every artist's does. But her thoughts were not concerned with the block of wood beneath her hands. The warmth from the candles could not rival the warming daydreams she entertained in her mind, reliving every second of her New Year's Eve on the rooftop with Carlisle.

Things had been somewhat awkward between them since New Year's Eve when she had kissed his cheek. Their momentum had been fascinatingly steady until that night. Something had happened on the rooftop when her lips had made an innocent mark upon his right cheek. She had crossed a line. Now she worried that she had thrown off that momentum by what she had done.

But in the end, it was only a kiss. Barely even a kiss. A peck on the cheek. The gesture could have easily been shared between a brother and sister, yet...

There was no denying she had felt something entirely un-sisterly in that kiss. And _she _had been the one to initiate that magical moment.

She had understood Carlisle's reaction to the gesture, but that did not keep her from wondering what his true feelings for her now were, if they had been at all changed by her actions. She wanted so desperately to know what he was thinking now, but he had been too quiet to read by expression alone. He spoke of nothing but art now, and if he was not speaking of art, he was silent.

During the cold days of winter, Esme found a surprising solace in the soothing silence beneath the old mansion. She surrounded herself by Carlisle's art as she worked tirelessly to create her own, following the inspiration from his ingenious collection. He would often come to visit her during the hours between his shifts at the hospital, checking to see how far along she had come. Esme's work was never quite as impressive as she had hoped, and Carlisle's visits soon grew more bothersome than welcome. She tried to hide her slight embarrassment as the days wore on, and barely any progress appeared to be taking place despite all her hard work on the carving.

He must have caught a hint of her discomfort, for soon he only came to visit her once a day instead of twice or three times. His visits were always short-lived and usually he only said a few words of hesitant encouragement. Eventually he stopped speaking when he came to see her, settling to give her work a casual glance as he passed through to retrieve something from another corner of the room. Her ignorance surely fed the uneasy belly of his uncertainty, and within a week or so Carlisle failed to visit her altogether.

In her solitude, Esme found comfort only in the candles he left lit for her every morning out of habit.

She wondered if her time here were being wasted; if the possibility of creating anything that could meet his standards was even worth the effort. She stood back hour after hour to survey her work, only to find the piece looking more like a sorry wooden knot rather than a pair of gracefully clinging hands.

She dug through the upstairs library for art books filled with instructions and pictures of the human figure in dozens of positions. She even stole a few of Carlisle's anatomy books for extra studying. No matter how many times she replayed the slow motion memory of her hand being held in Carlisle's, she could not seem to reconstruct it in a new medium.

Carlisle had said wood would be easy to work with, but Esme was finding it frightfully uncooperative.

On a good day she could harness her concentration enough to form what ever so slightly resembled a single finger, rising hesitantly from the wooden block. From that point on, she managed to build off of that, slowly coaxing the shapes she envisioned from the splintery mass with her tools.

When at last she had something recognizable, she realized with some disappointment that the hand she had carved in the wood was smaller than it should have been. It more resembled the hand of an infant than her own. Could it have been some subconscious part of her longing to carve the hand of her sweet baby son?

_Gabriel. _

The name was now seamlessly interlocked with the unforgotten face of her infant son. It was no more than a suggestion from Carlisle, but somehow it had fit from the moment he'd said it.

Esme looked on sadly as her carving blade gently scraped away the wood shavings from the small gripping fingers of her sculpture. It was not much, but it was a start. And whatever her intentions had been in the beginning, perhaps the end result would not be the hands of two lovers refusing to let go. A new possibility was rising before her very eyes, and like all artists, Esme knew that the course of an artwork could never be fully predicted.

It could be the hand of a parent, holding the hand of a child.

Esme's small smile melted in uncertainty as she picked up the chisel. With so much time spent to reach such a small point of satisfaction, she was almost scared to touch the half-formed carving for fear of ruining what she already had.

But art was about taking risks, making mistakes and learning the many ways in which one could fix them for the better. She was not going to give up so easily after coming so far already.

All seemed to be going well with the carving until she heard Carlisle's voice speaking to Edward upstairs. The ceiling was so thick yet she could still hear so much through it. Distracted by the sound of the doctor's voice, Esme accidentally pulled a chunk of wood right out with her chisel, damaging a perfectly rendered knuckle of the hand she had taken so many hours to carve.

She froze in place, a cold sensation of devastation clamoring down her spine as she stared at the pathetic, gaping wound that her chisel had left in the wooden hand.

Tears prickled in the beds of her eyes as she stared at the destroyed piece of art. The room felt cold and empty, and everything was silent save for the distant rhythm of footsteps outside. The footsteps came closer, feeding her dread until they were coming down the cellar stairs, and the sweet musk of incense and warmth flooded her breath.

Of all times, he chose _now _to visit her.

"How are things coming along?" his gentle voice inquired.

She suppressed an irrational surge of anger at Carlisle as he came up behind her. Whether by intention or not, he was the one who had distracted her, causing this mishap in the first place. In her defense she was also frustrated by his poor timing; if he'd only come a little bit sooner he would have seen her progress _before_ she had ruined the carving by one clumsy slip of the hand.

"Not as well as I'd hoped, I admit," she managed to mumble through her teeth.

"You've been down here since five o'clock," he began hesitantly. "Surely you must have made _some _progress."

She tried to tell herself that his intentions were good, but the nature of his words irritated her into speaking with an irreverently caustic tone.

"Oh, I have made progress all right – progress that I've only just ruined with one stupid mistake." She just nearly resisted slamming the chisel down on the table beside her, trying to keep her hands from shaking in fury. She refused to let Carlisle see her get so worked up over a simple carving.

The heat crept further up her face the longer he was silent, then suddenly he spoke.

"Let me help."

God bless him. He thought every problem could be fixed in an instant.

Esme squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to whimper in dismay. "You don't need to."

"I want to."

A little fire flared in her chest. That _insistence. _Sometimes she wondered if she were mistaking her frustration for attraction when he spoke that way. He just could not take no for an answer sometimes.

Normally she would have found the nature of his aid to be comforting, but right now she felt that his attention would only bloat her burden.

"Carlisle, I really don't think it's possible to fix this," she tried.

"Everything can be fixed," he said resolutely, and both his arms came around her in a strictly instructive embrace. He was wearing a plaid shirt of dark blue crisscrossed with green and gray stripes. His sleeve was rolled up on the right arm, but not on his left. He had a gorgeous smear of peacock blue ink on the inside of his right wrist that almost looked like a bruise.

Normally his closeness would have been more than welcome, but for the first time, Esme felt Carlisle's intrusion to her space was oppressive and almost...agitating.

She watched with burning shame as his hand picked up the unfortunate little chunk of wood that she had chopped out of the carving. He turned it over in his palm, examining it for a moment before he held it experimentally up to the empty space where it had once been.

He hummed a quiet note of displeasure, forcing Esme to wince and inhale angrily.

"I told you it couldn't be fixed," she muttered.

His long fingers stroked the carving almost lovingly, picking some of the splinters out of the wood. "This is nothing, Esme. It's barely a scratch. We can chisel it down and make it good as new. I'll show you."

She watched as he scraped away at the wood with his chisel until the details she had previously carved were nearly all gone. All of the little parts she was most proud of were destroyed by _his _hands. And all she could do was stand there between his arms and watch helplessly while he did it. His intentions were only to help her, and it broke her heart that she could not say anything.

"There," he whispered contentedly, brushing dust from the once again smooth surface of the wood.

Esme swallowed hard, trying to make the devastated lump in her throat go away as she stared at the worn down piece of wood. Thinking he was done, she was about to offer him the obligatory word of thanks, but he cut her off before she could open her mouth.

"Now we can start over," he said softly, his very presence soaking her in unbearable patience.

She gritted her teeth and resisted another urge to sob.

He did his best to show her how to best render the challenging details of the hands, how to shape them realistically, and how to properly control the tools. His hands were surrounding hers as he guided her use of each tool, but this time her fingers were twitching irritably instead of being unresisting and submissive. There had been such intimacy in the act when he first showed her the subtle techniques of carving. That intimacy was still there – stronger than ever – but now it pained her, because she did not wish to let herself feel it.

In that moment Esme could do little but wince in private anger toward Carlisle for pretending that he was unaware of her mood. He prattled on about something to do with her technique, and she could not even half-listen. His voice was sweet and agreeable, and his body was warm, and he was being so _patient _that it was bound to drive her mad.

She wanted to toss his hands aside and tell him to mind his own business for once. She wanted to destroy her hopeless, unfinished carving by setting it on fire with one of the candles he had lit. She wanted to turn around, take Carlisle's face between her hands and kiss his cheek again, not so gently this time.

All of these thoughts and desires escaped her lips in a violent sigh.

"I did warn you it would not be easy," he dared to say, mistaking her sigh for one of mere exasperation.

Her hands twitched in annoyance but she managed to keep calm before speaking. "I know. I just... I'm a little frustrated is all."

"Well, you should take a break for a while," he said. A maddening note of generosity tinged his voice, as if he were offering her something she had not allowed herself to consider. "You've been working for a long time."

_He only knew the half of it. _

"So much for making progress," she mumbled in defeat, pushing her useless tools to the side.

Carlisle shook his head as he moved to stand beside her. "For what it is worth, you've made plenty of progress. Carving is not something that you can learn overnight, Esme," he said as he began to patiently clean each of the tools she had pushed aside with a cloth. "Give it time. It will be a masterpiece in the end, I know it."

She bit her tongue but the words came out anyway. "You don't need to humor me."

He was silent for only a second, but his instant reflex was to argue against her accusation.

"I'm not humoring—"

"Carlisle, please. I understand that you want to make me feel good about everything I'm doing, but honestly, I can't help but feel you're only patronizing me at this point."

The silence hung between them longer this time, and Esme could suddenly feel her throat burning with regret over having said such words. She didn't know which would be worse – keeping her feelings locked inside and pretending all was fine or telling him the truth and having to see his heartbreaking reaction.

He looked stunned at first, then utterly lost. She had never seen Carlisle look at her that way before, with that pure, blackened emptiness in his eyes. It made her feel gloriously guilty, and it filled her with a tremendous physical pain, as if she had just been stabbed in the gut with one of his carving tools.

"Patronizing?" he repeated the word, and it sounded as empty as his eyes looked. Quickly, his defense turned to desperation. "I would never dream of—Esme, anything I have said to you has been said with sincere purpose. I swear it!"

She heaved a sharp sigh that sounded closer to a scoff, tearing her eyes away from his face. "That's just it. I know you. You don't even_ realize _it," she said as she began to hastily put her tools away, flustered and failing to place each of them in their proper cases.

Carlisle watched her in bewilderment for a few moments before he interjected softly, "Esme, if I'd known you felt that way—"

She could not take him anymore. His voice, his face, his hesitation - all of it was maddening.

"It isn't your fault. It's mine," she said curtly, wiping her dusty hands on the cloth and turning away without once meeting his gaze.

He turned after her in a panic as she headed for the stairs.

"Where art th—Where are you going?" he stuttered, sounding completely crestfallen.

"Upstairs. To paint," she explained stiffly as she stomped up the steps. "I might as well do something I'm good at for a while."

The door shut behind her, thankfully not as loudly as she thought it might. She truly had not wanted to hurt his feelings in any way, but she was certain that with his sensitivity Carlisle would not respond favorably to her behavior.

It was his fault for being so overbearing all of the time.

So wonderfully, hopelessly, religiously overbearing.

Covering her mouth to conceal a sob, Esme rushed into the house as quickly as possible and went upstairs before Edward could inquire after her distress.

She felt out of breath by the time she reached her library, slamming the door behind her for no reason other than to give herself a foolish sense of safety. Carlisle would never intrude on her when he knew she sought privacy, but Edward might, and she did not want to speak to either of them right now.

It had been a long while since Esme had let herself fall prey to the unpredictable swings of newborn emotions. She remembered suffering from them nearly every day when she had first been changed, but lately she thought that her situation may have been improving.

Shaking her head forcefully in shame, she tore open the drawer where she kept her oil paints and scooped them up to carry over to her easel. It had been too long since she had painted. Sculpting was eating all of her time lately; it would feel so good to be able to hold a paintbrush between her fingers again.

But the moment she took the paintbrush and dipped it once into the pigment, she felt that it was weighed down too much to even lift. Her hand barely managed to carry it up high enough to touch the canvas. With one disgraceful stroke, she left a watery line of dark green paint on the good white surface. She watched in idle bemusement as the paint began to drip down the canvas, leaving several murky tears behind.

Tossing her paintbrush back into the glass of turpentine, she swept from her library across the hall and around the corner to find the mysterious bedroom where Carlisle had kept his own oil painting hidden from her.

She cautiously creaked open the door to peek inside, but the place where his painting had once been propped against the wall was now empty. She turned her head to allow her eye to scan the rest of the floor, searching along the wall for any signs that it had been moved or replaced by another. But there was nothing.

She wondered where he had taken it – that beautiful painting of the moonlit lake.

She wondered if the painting had ever even been there at all.

What if he had somehow discovered her intrusion? Would he have found this offense appalling enough to have moved the painting from one room to another where it would be safe from her prying eyes?

The thought made Esme's emotions sweep from angry and irritable to fearful and sad. She hung her head morosely as she closed the door to the bedroom and sulked her way back downstairs, following the sweet smell of pine to the parlor.

The Christmas tree that had once stood proud and tall by the fireplace was losing its life slowly as time wore on. They had kept it in the parlor since Christmas, and nearly a month was too long for a tree to survive out of the forest. It had lost some of its enchanting pure green color, replaced by a dull brown on the tips of its sagging branches. The only ornament that lingered still was the small crystal dove that Esme had hung on the uppermost branch. Even its sparkling seemed fainter now that the holidays were over and done.

With a mournful ache in her arm, Esme reached fruitlessly for the little dove, unable to reach it no matter how hard she strained. She tried again and again, knowing that it would never be possible. Just like everything else in her life, she tried but never succeeded. Not on her own.

Then a pair of quick and strong hands suddenly lifted her from the ground, and her fingers caught the golden thread of the ornament she was reaching for. The hands lowered her carefully to set her back down.

"It's about time this tree came down," Edward said softly.

Esme turned to stare gratefully up at the boy's tender eyes. He smiled slightly, in a beautifully crooked way that made her maternal heart melt.

"I'll miss it," Esme added with a nod toward the once magnificent evergreen that she and Edward had chosen together.

She looked sadly back down to the crystal dove that lay in her hand. "Where should I keep this?"

"Carlisle gave it to you, didn't he?" Edward's words were innocently presumptuous, causing Esme to turn her head down in chagrin.

"Not really..." Esme recalled the way Carlisle had opened the box to reveal the ornament to her on Christmas Eve. His behavior had been odd that night, so wonderfully rushed and excited. But he had not given her any reason to assume that the crystal dove did in fact belong to her.

"Well, you can probably assume that he _meant _it for you," Edward said simply as he reached up to begin tucking the tree's branches down two at a time.

Esme reluctantly set the tiny dove on the mantel and joined in helping him to bind the tree. Her movements were fast and accurate but her mind was miles away, wondering if Edward's words could be believed. The last thing she wanted was to take advantage of Carlisle's kindness under the guise of an honest misunderstanding. He would never say anything if she simply took the ornament as her own, but if she were forward enough to ask him, he would just as likely assure her that it had been meant for her all along.

Edward sighed softly on the other side of the tree, and Esme took it as a subtle hint to quiet her thoughts.

"It's a bit sad to see the holidays end," she remarked. As she tucked two limp evergreen branches down, a cluster of pine needles rained down forlornly on her feet.

"Before you know it they'll be here again," Edward said, brushing some fallen needles off his shoulders. "The years go by quickly around here."

The thought made Esme nervous as much as it delighted her. A whole year with Carlisle and Edward would have seemed so daunting not but several months ago. Now it sounded like the greatest blessing she could ask for. She dearly hoped that Edward's words would prove true. Compared with eternity a year was nothing, but to her mind it still seemed a frustratingly long time to wait for another Christmas. The few days of yuletide magic she had followed until New Year's had been some of the best she had known. Nothing could have been more perfect.

Considering her more recent tension with the doctor, Esme now felt that perfection was slowly fading.

"Esme, you shouldn't' let Carlisle pressure you into doing anything you don't want to do," Edward abruptly interrupted her thought.

"But he wanted to teach me how to carve as a gift," she stated sadly, swallowing hard to suppress her guilt. "I can't refuse his gift."

"You practically already did."

Edward's words stung more than an insect bite and burned more than a flame. Her guilt tripled as she thought back to the things she had said to Carlisle in the cellar earlier that morning, a hidden blush spreading over her cheeks at the realization that she had in fact turned him away without precedent.

"I don't have the patience to do what he does," she admitted with shame, picking idly at the loose pine needles until they fell. "My hands just weren't made for carving."

"Then explain that to him."

_I tried._

Edward stepped around the side of the tree to face her, eye to eye.

"Esme, you know Carlisle by now. The way you might explain something to _me_ is far different than how you would go about explaining it to him. Sometimes, with Carlisle, you need to be a little more..." He gave a small shrug. "...blunt."

Esme crumbled a few pine needles in her bare hands, releasing their intoxicating scent into the air. The memories of their Christmas together blazed before her like a new fire in the hearth, taunting her with the joy that now seemed so unattainable.

_I'm so afraid of hurting him any more than I already have, _she murmured through her mind.

Edward smiled in understanding. "He'll get over it as long as he knows you don't hate him."

_Everything he does makes me feel guilty, _she thought hopelessly.

"He feels the same way about you sometimes."

Edward's response was not so unexpected, but for some reason it still surprised her. More than that, it heightened her regret.

_Why is this happening?_ She wondered, resisting the urge to toss a branch on the ground in her frustration._ We were all doing so well..._

"That's what happens with families, Esme. They have problems," Edward said, his voice effortlessly carrying the tone of wisdom that his father so often displayed. "No family can please you every day, especially when you have an eternity to live with them."

An eternity to live with Carlisle. How could she forgive herself for mistreating him in the slightest way when they had such a long life ahead of them?

Esme's head fell into her hands.

_Oh, I wish I hadn't refused him the way I did. What came over me?_

Edward came up beside her with a warm hand on her shoulder. "If I know one thing about Carlisle, it's that he's _always_ willing to forgive." He chuckled to himself and gave her arm a teasing poke. "In fact, he may beg _you _for _your _forgiveness if you aren't quick enough to ask him for it first."

They shared a moment of soft laughter, careful to remain quiet enough that Carlisle would not hear them from the cellar. Esme's laughter was genuine but quick to fade, leaving Edward to stare at her hopefully before making further conversation.

"Would you like to go hunting with me for a while?" he finally asked, nodding in the direction of the snowy window. "I was thinking of running up to Ottawa this morning."

Esme cast a longing glance out the window where the frozen lake shimmered under a faded watercolor sun. She knew the fresh blood would be likely to help her irritability, but her fear more than pride was what kept her from accepting Edward's offer.

"I'm not sure that I can... It's just that the weather has been warmer..." She struggled to imply that people may be walking about in the forest, hoping that Edward would catch the message in her thoughts before she had to finish her sentence.

"It's alright," he assured her quickly, cutting off the subject before she could feel uncomfortable. "I can bring you something on my way back if you'd like."

She offered him a small smile of relief. _Thank you. I would appreciate that, Edward. _

He kissed her softly on the side of her forehead, and the gesture shocked her with its unexpected sweetness. With one last word of goodbye, he grabbed his jacket and bound the final branches of the Christmas tree before dragging it out the back door with him. She watched from the threshold as he trudged through the snow with their dying tree, carrying it back to its old home in the forest.

A peaceful cloud of silence settled into the room as she savored the last whiff of sweet pine scent before it trailed away. Turning back into the house, Esme's feet carried her right back to the place where Carlisle's crystal dove ornament was still perched on the mantel of the fireplace. It seemed appropriate to be displayed at a greater height where it could watch the room from above. On top of the fireplace it was perfectly placed to catch the flickering lights from the fire and the soft light from the curtained windows across the room. She watched for a while as it sparkled in shades of bright blue and fiery orange, and the longer she watched, the more she liked its new location. It may not have been the top of a tree, but it was a nice place to keep it for the rest of the year. There it could sit from its high perch with the promise to keep the subtle spirit of Christmas through the months ahead.

That crystal dove was the only way Esme felt she could cling to the beautiful times she had spent with Edward and Carlisle during the Christmas season.

With the parlor looking so empty without the tree in the corner, she was reminded of how difficult moving on could be.

As she took in another deep breath of the lingering pine, the rich scent began to change, becoming softer, more stirring...

Esme braced both hands about her cheeks in surprise as the doors to the parlor flew open, and Carlisle stormed into the room, clutching a letter in one hand and an envelope in the other.

He did not spare her a second glance as he entered, heading straight for the fireplace. The flames shuddered anxiously at his approach; even the fire seemed to be frightened at his uncharacteristic entrance.

Taking a step back, Esme found a safe spot behind an armchair and cautiously asked, "What is it?"

Carlisle's shoulders rose and fell with a drastic sigh as he abruptly tore the letter into tiny pieces and tossed them along with the envelope into the flames.

"The Volturi," he answered darkly. "Again."

Having never heard any news of the Volturi before, Esme's face scrunched up in confusion. "What do they want?"

"Me," Carlisle replied, the word nothing more than a deep black hole. He leaned closer to the fire, hands gripping the mantel as he watched the papers burn. "And they're curious about Edward."

"How do they know about him?" Esme demanded.

"I've revealed in my letters to Aro that I'd found a companion," he said, the regret evident even in his profile. "I thought it would stop them from asking me to join them if they knew I had company here."

A shiver of fright touched the back of her neck. "Do they know about _me_?"

"No," he said with a severity that shocked her. "And I won't be telling them either." He watched the letter burning to ashes in the fireplace with a frightening gleam of carnality in his eyes. His demeanor was dark, brooding, so unlike how she had ever seen him behave before.

"For Heaven's sake, Carlisle," she exclaimed breathlessly, her voice still tinged with regretful irritation at him from earlier. "Their letters must not be very polite for you to become so hassled over them."

He let out an ironic laugh. "You don't understand Esme; the only reason they want Edward and me is out of their own fear." She noticed his knuckles swelling as he tightened his hold on the mantel by his head. "They fear me being out in the world this way. They fear that my lifestyle will spread."

"That's nothing to fear at all!" she argued.

"For them it is! They cannot have vampires like me, waltzing around in all parts of the world, pretending to be human. It puts our kind at risk, and I am not denying that. It does put us at risk." His voice lowered as if only now realizing the seriousness of that risk. "Every day I show my face at the hospital I put us at risk."

"Then the Volturi want you to join them so that they can...convert you," she guessed, knowing and dreading that her guess was correct.

He nodded solemnly, his fingers brushing the place where the crystal dove sat on the mantel above. "For decades they've been trying."

"So send them a letter back!" she said vehemently, rushing up to the fireplace beside him, waving forth a wild hand for encouragement. "Tell them to hell with it!"

His face showed the faintest bit of shock at her use of language, then after a short moment he chuckled with derision.

"I've sent _letters_, Esme. Every time I've written them, I've declined Aro's offers. But it is impossible to reason with Aro once he has his mind set on something." He turned towards the fire again, watching the flames with a disturbingly intense look in his eyes. His face blazed in the golden light, and though he may have looked twice as handsome, he also looked twice as threatening. "I do not believe Aro is an _evil _man by any means," he continued, "but his lust for power keeps him from sympathizing with anyone but himself."

Esme began to grow more uneasy as his accent strengthened, and the more he spoke, the less contractions he seemed to employ in his wording. Carlisle's anger, among other strong emotions, seemed to manifest itself through a retreat to an old-fashioned manner of speaking. It was not by coincidence that every time he perceived a threat or was faced with a stressful situation, he began to sound ever more like the 17th Century Englishman he truly was.

Though it made him frustratingly attractive in the face of distress, seeing him such a flustered mess also broke her heart.

"I understand that, Carlisle," she began compassionately, "but that doesn't give you any reason to be so _angry_ about it."

"Forgive me for what I am about to say, Esme, but I do not believe you _do _understand this. My situation is far more complicated than what you believe it to be." His voice was shaking slightly as he turned to face her, his eyebrows drawn in pity. "You have no idea how deep this goes."

"Well, you could _tell _me what's really bothering you so much, and maybe _then_ I could help you," she said forcefully. It was a risk to speak to Carlisle in such a manner, but she felt in that moment that it was the only way to get through to him. If anything, she hoped that by helping him with this problem she might redeem herself for her behavior earlier that day… but she wasn't off to a very good start.

He gave an irritable little sigh – such a small sound, nearly insignificant – yet it felt like she had been struck by a knitting needle in the heart. "I know you're trying to offer your aid in good respect, Esme, but I cannot accept it. Not for this." He shook his head hopelessly, hiding his fingers in the back of his hair. "It's...it's simply too much to explain to you."

Hurt by the way he had verbally brushed her aside, Esme backed slowly away from where Carlisle stood. Part of her supposed that he only wanted to spite her for how she had refused his help earlier that day in the carving studio, but she did not wish to believe that Carlisle could be capable of resorting to such immature means for revenge.

Immediately he saw how his hastiness had affected her, and his face became twisted in painful apology.

"I didn't mean it like that—"

"No," she interrupted in a dry, calm voice she barely recognized as her own. "You don't have to justify anything. You've made yourself perfectly clear. You don't need any help from me." Her back straightened rigidly as she smoothed her hands coolly over her skirt and backed toward the door. "Excuse me."

Before she could hear the plea she knew was coming, she was upstairs, behind her bedroom door with her hands firmly locked around the handle, breathing hard.

After roughly a minute of silence, the sudden, shocking sound of the back doors flinging open urged her to race toward the window. The last thing she saw was a distant fleck of bright blond hair as Carlisle disappeared into the forest.

She should have been angry with him for leaving her in the house all alone, but she couldn't help but fear that through her behavior she had sent the message that this was what she wanted.

Hadn't that been what she had desired from the beginning of the day? She wanted Carlisle to leave her in peace, and now that was just what he had done.

The house felt so empty without either Carlisle or Edward inside it. The coldness from outside seemed to seep through the windows, creeping like fingers of ice into her heart. She thought she could see shadows moving towards her, thought she could hear disturbing noises from the attic. Every gust of wind set her on edge, every change in the air's scent made her panic.

She thought of running out after him, but her pride was already too wounded for that.

Instead, Esme's feet carried her right back down two flights of stairs into the cellar that was still alight with candles and the aroma of freshly carved wood.

What she saw on the table she had abandoned that morning made her stop in her tracks.

Every last wooden shaving had been scraped away, leaving behind a flawlessly smooth surface of wood. A perfect pair of hands now blossomed out of the wooden block, the curves and details of the fingers and knuckles exactly as they had been before she had made the one mistake that ruined them. Her eyes roamed over the piece of art in utter amazement, blinking repeatedly every few seconds to be sure that the sight was not just a trick of the unpredictable candlelight.

In a final beckoning for proof, Esme reached out to let her fingers touch the carving Carlisle had finished for her when she had given up.

And she began to sob.

* * *

**A/N:**

**You may read Carlisle's POV of this chapter in Behind Stained Glass, "Chapter 28: A Dungeon with Velvet Curtains". **


	50. Unlikely Valentine

**Chapter 50:**

**Unlikely Valentine**

* * *

The mind of a human was a complicated little mechanism. Always straining with the effort to churn out a coherent thought, processing things at speeds so slow they made slugs look like little slimy blurs in the garden flower bed.

Yet a vampire's mind held ten times the capacity of a human's, and the ability to think on multiple things at once was both a blessing and a curse. There were oh so many things to think about. So many things to remember, so many things to try to forget.

Esme had spent the past two days avoiding Carlisle since their disagreement over the Volturi letters. It was a silly thing to feel anger over, but she had carelessly let her pride mar the way to a truce with him. Instead of facing him for apologies, she distracted herself by cleaning the house from top to bottom.

Not a single cobweb remained in any room in the house, thanks to her obsessive perfectionism. She was eager to soon work on the outside of the house as well, but while she was waiting for the snow to melt, fixing up the inside was the perfect way to spend her time.

Edward helped her occasionally on her eccentric little projects. He was more enthusiastic when it came to refurnishing the music room, of course – other than that, he was content to sit and watch her while she worked. He was, however, most eager upon discovering the old harp that had been cloaked beneath an old white sheet and layers of dust. While cleaning, he swept his hand over the instrument's strings, strumming forth a sonorous crystalline chord. In the study, a softly muttered, _"Dear Lord!" _sounded. Clearly the sound had startled the poor doctor. Both Esme and Edward had forcibly pinched their own cheeks to keep from laughing.

They had reduced themselves to little more than two naughty children in desperate need of their busy father's attention. And really, they should not have been so disruptive when Carlisle had more work than ever as a result of his recent promotion. His hours in the hospital had unfortunately doubled toward the end of the season, but Esme remained more than grateful for Edward's exceedingly amusing company in the doctor's absence.

"So why are you still giving Carlisle the cold shoulder over those damned letters?" Edward asked her unexpectedly while they were cleaning out the inside of his piano.

Esme sighed forcefully. "I'm not giving him the cold shoulder... Am I?"

Edward raised a suspicious eyebrow. "He seems to think you are."

"Ohh," she groaned into her hands. "I didn't mean for this to go as far as it did. It was just a minor disagreement. I was only frustrated with him for not being entirely honest with me about his problems."

Edward cocked his head as he took the duster from Esme's limp hand, stealing her attention. "I get it. He could have told you more. The thing you have to understand about Carlisle is that he's used to _me_ reading his mind for everything. Sometimes he's not so good at sharing his feelings...at least not coherently." He smirked softly. "I'm sure he's just worried that bringing you into this mess with the Volturi would only cause you more stress. That's only more pressure he'd be putting on you."

Esme shook her head, feeling some of her suppressed frustration from the past few days rising in her stomach. "But I practically _invited _him to put more stress on me. I don't mind sharing his problems if it means I can help him in some way."

"You should tell him that," Edward said casually.

She gave him an empty stare.

"Do you want _me_ to take it up with him?" He threatened with a knowing smirk.

"Ugh...You're right," she conceded with a deep sigh. "I'll take care of it."

But she never quite worked up the courage.

She heard Carlisle come in through the door that evening, the stress positively radiating from his gorgeous body. She couldn't bear to bother him.

Late that night, however, he called softly for her from his study. Esme panicked, thinking that he was going to try and discuss their disagreement with her. Deciding it was best to get it over with if that was his intention, Esme swallowed her pride and went downstairs to find him.

He had been preparing for a difficult surgery he was to perform the next day; a strange leathery form in the shape a human's chest stuffed with cotton had been laid out on his desk. There were markings all across it – little arrows and letters and numbers – reminders in red and black ink, slits where he had cut through to the inside, and various morbid looking tools which he had used to make the incisions.

She gulped at the sight of it, but he welcomed her in with a tentative, not-all-the-way-there smile. He lifted a hand briefly, beckoning her closer to sit with him on the other side of the desk. Then she realized what they were going to do.

Even though Carlisle had such rare time to spend at home, he managed to devote an hour or so in his pressing schedule for her "blood training" in the middle of the night.

Together they went through a lengthy assortment of vials, each containing blood that increased in sweetness as they went down the line. Esme was able to resist every one of them without a struggle, even while holding the vial directly under her nose, and Carlisle was perhaps even more impressed by her progress than she was.

At the end of the session, after he had locked all of the vials safely away, he stood and said in an intriguingly playful tone, "I recall once, that you asked for a _present _after we had finished a successful test."

She raised a suspicious eyebrow as he crossed over to the shelf behind his desk, and knelt on one knee before the bottom cabinet to unlock it. With a secretive smile, he pulled out a flat round box, made of pale glossy wood and opened it so that only he could see what was inside.

"Carlisle..." She said his name as a subtle warning, but he ignored her as she knew he would. And that made _her_ smile.

He turned the open case around in his hands and lowered himself to crouch beside her chair, showing her what was inside.

The shallow case smelled of sand and salt, and was filled to the brim with exotic looking seashells of various sizes and colors – cocoa brown, and candy pink, and kiwi green – each more enchanting than the next. And they were clearly not the kind that would be blindly picked up from any old beach; it was obvious that they had been _selected _for their special qualities, that the hand that had plucked each from its place in the sand had been enchanted by each shell for a different reason.

She looked up at him in vague uncertainty, but his eyes just twinkled silently back at her. She knew what he wanted her to do.

"Pick one?" she whispered, an almost hopeful edge to her voice.

The corner of his lip shrugged. "Or two, or three..."

Her eyes dropped eagerly back to the open case, scanning each shell in turn for one that called to her.

But they were all calling to her, because they were all _his. _

Because she was convinced that there was nothing more intriguing than a surgeon who collected seashells.

Some were the color of sand, glossy and new looking despite their age. Some were the color of the ocean, creamy turquoise, and shining sea foam, curled to emulate a wave on the beach. Some were swirled, like porcelain ice cream with caramel tendrils. Some looked like the shells of beetles, iridescent jade and jewel-toned blue. Some were speckled like bird's eggs, coffee brown and rusty red. Some were incredibly thin, like blown glass – so frail looking that she feared one touch might turn them to dust. But others were sturdy and thick, like opaque ceramic. There were sunshine yellow cockle shells and sky blue conch shells with clouds of milky white. There were also two dried sea stars, but she felt it would be rather presumptuous to pick one of those.

A little overwhelmed, her fingers decidedly reached for the first shell they happened across, and she pulled it from its place of burial with a careful grip.

"That's a conch shell from the Indian Ocean," Carlisle explained as she examined it, turning it slowly between her fingers. The shell itself was surprisingly petite in size, with a graceful sort of twisting shape and slender spikes about its top that reminded her of a delicate but dangerous star. "It has always been one of my favorites because of this..." He turned it over to show her the shell's shockingly colorful underside, tracing his finger over the bright violet lines with care.

_One _of his favorites? She couldn't very well take it, then.

"Do you have _a _favorite?" she asked him curiously.

His eyes drifted down to the box, looking over the shells with a proud fondness, as if they were his own children.

"Well, yes." He bit his lip, then carefully sifted through them to pick up a small, white, misshapen shell that had been buried in the far corner. It was, funnily enough, the plainest of the group. "This one – it was the first one I found – from England." He let it rest in his palm so that she could look at it. "I always called it _'angel wings' _because it has these strange bits sprouting back here that look like wings."

She giggled at the comparison, and stared up at him in amusement, only to find his eyes intensely locked onto hers. She had the odd feeling that his eyes had never left hers all along. Only now she was fighting for breath in the sultry golden ocean of his stare.

He kept her, stock-still with his gaze for a strong moment frozen in time, then suddenly she felt something small, cold, and glossy being placed in her hand.

He was giving it to her.

"_What?_ Oh, no...no. Carlisle, I can't take this one from you—it's too precious—it wouldn't be appropriate..."

But his mellow smile never melted as he only softly shook his head. Her hand was being gently crushed between both of his now, as he trapped the tiny shell in her closed fist.

"I wouldn't have a collection at all if it weren't for this shell... And I wouldn't have a family if it weren't for you," he explained in a sincere, husky voice. "I think it is more than appropriate that you keep this shell."

Her mouth fell open, and her eyes furrowed in sadness as she looked down at the present she had received. The present she had asked for, but never really wanted to possess.

"You've given me too much," she whispered almost miserably as she caressed the little white shell, though her heart was sweltering with joy inside her chest.

He closed the lid on the wooden case with a soft click and leaned closer to murmur against her forehead before he stood up, "I can never give you enough." Standing at his full height he turned to the window and tied back the curtains. "And now I wish to apologize to you for the other day—"

She had known it was coming, but for all their pretending that nothing was wrong between them, she had almost fooled herself into thinking their problems had been forgotten. To suddenly hear his intention to apologize out loud was even worse than it would have been had he simply apologized the second she walked into the room.

"You don't need to do that, Carlisle," she pleaded, closing her eyes as she gently squeezed the shell in her hand.

"Yes. I do," he said, soft and insistent. "It wasn't right of me to send you away like that when you were only trying to help me."

She shook her head vehemently, rising from her chair to join him by the window. "I sent _myself _away."

"Because of the way I treated you," he finished abruptly, his dark eyes flashing, "...which was unacceptable. I promise never to behave that way again." His eyes normally would have retreated when he spoke the final sentence, but this time his eyes remained locked steadily onto hers as he made the promise.

Her skin felt flushed, and she quickly turned her face away. "I never meant to be pressuring to you," she said, seeking her own redemption. "But if there is any way I can help you, I want to know about it. I want you to know that you can come to me when you need me." Her confidence heightened enough to let her eyes raise to meet his again. "You don't have to pretend that your problems are nonexistent just to protect me. I want to know everything, Carlisle – even the things that aren't so pleasant."

He looked slightly surprised, but more than that, he looked worried. "As a part of my family, you deserve that, Esme." His brow furrowed as he considered her point. "But maybe it is still too soon for you to be concerned over these matters."

She sighed, this time with utter patience and understanding in place of agitation and anger. "If you keep protecting me from what is happening in the real world then it will always be 'too soon' for me, Carlisle."

His expression changed in understanding, like a father realizing for the first time that his child was no longer a child. "You're right," he murmured, his eyes wandering from the dark window to her face. "You want the truth of the matter, then?" he whispered reluctantly.

She nodded resolutely, determined that he would not deny her anything this time. "Yes. Every detail."

She inched closer to him, eager for his explanation.

Carlisle sighed and looked down as he spoke. "I've made the mistake of promising Aro I would return to Volterra one day. He's under the impression that I will be bringing Edward along with me. I never told the Volturi about you, and I don't want them to know you exist... and so I've been trying to find an excuse not to go." As he talked, his fingers fiddled with the little golden latch on the wooden case that held his seashells.

"Why don't you want the Volturi to know about me?" She didn't mean to sound suspicious, but her tone suggested it.

He looked from one side to the other, then down at the ground again, his expression showing deep discomfort.

"It would only complicate things," he finally said, his voice soft. "They would ask me questions about you; they would make presumptions about you. They would likely want to meet you."

"Would it really be so terrible if we visited Volterra someday?" she asked delicately.

His face, if possible, seemed to grow paler at the suggestion.

"Honestly... I just don't want to go back there." She thought she saw him shudder as he looked back out the window. "The memories hurt. I don't want to relive the things I've seen there. I know things wouldn't be the same now, but I have no immediate desire to see them again, and I don't think I will any time soon."

"I can understand that." She nodded slowly, meeting the gaze of his reflection in the window. "I couldn't see myself wanting to return to my home in Ohio. I think it would be too painful for me, too."

He was silent for a moment, but when he turned to face her, she was beaming. "Doesn't it feel better to talk about these things?" she asked him.

He nodded solemnly.

"I'm sorry if I seemed like I was prying, Carlisle. But you worried me that day when you burned those letters. You seemed so...irrationally angry."

A small wince slipped across his lips. "I overreacted. You were right to be concerned for me. But it wasn't just about the Volturi, Esme. It was... a great many things."

His voice sounded weary again, and she longed to lift that invisible weight she sensed hanging over his shoulders.

"Anything I can help you with?"

He gave her an achy smile. "I'm afraid not. But thank you for listening to me." Then he took her hand and gently laced his fingers with hers. "I forgot how much I needed this."

And she had forgotten how much she needed his touch.

Her eyes closed in contentment as the familiar blazing warmth of his strong hand rushed into hers, restoring a vital part of her that was lost over the past few days of silence.

"I just wish we could clean up this mess with the Volturi somehow," she murmured, leaning closer to him until her hair brushed his arm.

"We'll figure things out," he said, his voice flowing like silk, set to a familiar timbre of unrestrained care.

She looked up at him hopefully.

"It will all turn out in the end," he said with a small smile.

Looking at their bonded hands, Esme was reminded of the wooden hands she had tried to carve. Her heart sank with regret as she thought of the project she had abandoned only for Carlisle to finish it in secret while they weren't speaking to each other.

She took a deep breath and looked into his eyes. After so long avoiding the subject, she now suddenly wanted nothing more than to bring it up. "Carlisle... about my carving..."

His eyes widened and his lips fell open, his handsome face going tense with nervousness. "Oh, forgive me, Esme! I couldn't bear to see you give up, so I thought that if I—"

She hushed him swiftly with two fingers against his lips. "I only wanted to _thank_ you."

He slowly closed his lips, and she thought she could feel them press against her fingertips ever so lightly before she slipped away. An appreciative shiver raced up her spine. While he was staring at her so deeply with those childlike eyes, she could not keep from offering her own apologies for very long.

"Carlisle, you know that it is my own fault that this happened," she whispered shamefully. "If I hadn't turned you away from me that morning when you tried to help me with the carving, we wouldn't have been so quick to turn against each other."

For the first time, Carlisle did not argue with her to claim the fault was his. She could not deny it; it hurt her pride.

He stared at her solemnly, his eyes expressive but still. "That _was _all I wanted, Esme. To help you. I meant nothing more by it." He sounded so hurt, so vulnerable and broken that she almost crashed her lips against his to keep him from speaking. "Is it not ironic that we both refused each other when we only wanted to offer help?"

"I know," she whispered back fervently, wishing he would stop before she started sobbing. "I know..." Her hands framed his solid cheeks, and she moved closer to him. "Oh, Carlisle... I was frustrated. I wasn't thinking. I so wish I could take back everything I said."

"Do not wish for that," he said wisely, his smooth skin sliding against her hands as he spoke. "The words you have spoken may have been spoken in anger, but they were honest words, Esme."

She looked down in shame, knowing she could not deny this.

"I hope that you will always have the courage to be honest with me, even if it may hurt one or both of us. Do you understand?" He said the words so gently, so quietly that she felt the strange need to close her eyes.

"Yes. I understand." She lifted her head higher and held his gaze, struggling against her urge to cry. "But this is one problem that you cannot blame yourself for, Carlisle." She paused, letting her words sink in. "You must forgive _me_."

His eyes were calm, with only the tiniest twinge of regret. They were learning, one small step at a time, how to live together and how to understand and accept each other. It was not an easy feat, but the longer they took to learn it, the more beautiful the outcome would surely be.

"Forgive me," she repeated once more, desperately, beneath her breath.

With the gentlest touch imaginable, Carlisle reached out for her cheek and whispered, "I forgive you."

And those were his words of parting before he left her for another fourteen hour shift at the hospital. He did not leave without first offering her a forgiving embrace, and for that she was grateful. Secretly, she had hoped he would offer her a small kiss, returning the favor she had granted his cheek. But she was content to at least be back in his arms again. For now, it was enough.

Esme tucked her precious new gift away with her music box and her swan maquette and the book of South American maps on her bedside table. Before she could fall into a sentimental spill over the doctor's relentless generosity, she dashed downstairs to busy herself for a fourteen hour shift of her own.

That morning after putting her newly finished wooden hand carving safely into her bedside drawer, she had resolved to finish painting the ballroom once and for all. Four paintbrushes and seventeen cans of green paint later, Esme finally faced the very last panel, and it was already more than half-way through its first coat.

She didn't know how dear Edward found the patience to watch her without growing bored out of his mind. Then again, if he was listening to her thoughts, maybe he would have gleaned more entertainment from the situation. She didn't think of much, though. Just Carlisle and the things she was trying to paint. Mostly Carlisle.

"Will you stop humming that song over and over again?" Edward pleaded with an exhausted sigh.

Esme had dared to play her music box several times every day since she had received it, and it had since glued itself securely in the back of her mind, repeating in an endless string of melancholy chimes that refused to fade. The song would forever remind her of the night she had met Carlisle, and silly as it was, some part of her feared forgetting it despite her impenetrable memory. So she replayed it feverishly in her mind, every minute while she worked.

_Sorry, _she mumbled through her thoughts, for Edward's sake.

But the song still played on, uninterrupted inside her mind.

"You're hopeless, you know that?"

She smirked.

_"Helpless, hopeless Esme..." _Edward's velvet voice made the taunting syntax sting less, but it still bothered her to hear it.

"Only _I_ am allowed to call myself that," she said in as light a tone as she could manage.

"Oh, I beg your pardon." He poorly masked his snickering.

She glared at him.

"Where did it come from, anyway?" he asked curiously.

"I can't remember. Probably from the children who used to tease me."

He was quiet as the bleak string of memories chuckled silently in her mind.

And because Edward could not apologize in silence like she could, he was forced to say it out loud.

"Sorry."

She smiled forgivingly.

"It's all right. That's far behind me now. Along with everything else in my human life..."

Her heart grew sore as the familiar, withering images of Carlisle tending to her broken leg flashed through her memory. His pale hands, his gentle smile, his warm eyes...

Edward's breathing took on an awkward rhythm behind her.

_Sorry. _

There was an unusual amount of apologizing being done today.

"Why would you apologize for that?" Edward asked, his voice torturously soft.

Her paintbrush stilled as she lowered her head, sighing painfully. "You're exhausted by my thoughts of him. You don't need to pretend that you're not bothered, Edward. You have a right to be, and I understand that."

"Esme, you haven't done anything wr—"

She cut him off quickly before he could finish. She'd sooner be damned if someone told her once again that she had not done anything wrong. Because she had. She had done many things wrong, many things that she was not proud of and that she could never amend.

"Edward, I am lost in my own heart," she tried to speak clearly without sobbing. "I don't know how or why I've let myself fall in love with him, but I have, and it's too late for me to change that."

Edward sucked in a breath, and she quickly continued talking, anticipating that he was only going to refute her again.

"You must promise me that you will never reveal my feelings to Carlisle without my consent," she whispered sternly, whipping around to meet his gaze. "Do not even imply anything. Do you understand, Edward?"

Edward knew every one of her secrets, and she was now aware of the danger he posed to exposing her feelings. It was relieving in a sense to at least confide in one person, but _if Carlisle knew... _Dear Mother in heaven. She would simply die. She didn't even know why, but the idea of him knowing that she loved him in _that _way terrified her.

Edward stared at her intently for a few seconds, then nodded resolutely, much to her relief. He looked almost too scared to speak.

She turned her back to him firmly, and raised her brush to the wall, but she was swiftly impaired by the wrenching sobs that she knew would eventually find her, vulnerable and all too ready to cry.

"Esme."

She felt him approach her from behind, and with effort, she managed to compose herself just long enough to make one more stroke on the panel before she surrendered herself to the silent sobs.

"Esme..."

His long fingers gently curled around her hand, taking the brush from her reluctant grip.

"There's no reason to be upset," he tried to talk sense into her, but his effort was futile. Of course she had reason to be upset. She was in love with a man whom it was very well possible would never love her in the way she selfishly wanted to be loved. Hers was a situation people would rather kill themselves than be caught within. The more she told herself it was impossible that they would ever find love like the kind she had read about in books as a child, the more wonderful Carlisle became.

"I don't know why I'm crying," she sniffled into Edward's shoulder, laughing a little bit at the foolishness of her reaction.

"There's nothing to be ashamed or afraid of," Edward told her, rubbing her back soothingly as he rocked her in his arms. She could hear the smile of relief in his voice.

"I've just never felt these feelings for anyone before," she choked out, her words quaking sadly. "Even when I think I'm angry with him, even when I feel that he has wronged me, it all only seems to make me want him _more, _and I... I don't know what to do."

Edward rubbed her shoulders with pacifying strokes, trying to calm her. Then after a brief minute of silence, he spoke. "You should tell him."

She yanked herself out of his embrace with a gasp of pure outrage.

What business did Edward have telling her when and with whom she could share her secrets?

Why did he not understand that this must forever be kept hidden from Carlisle?

"Why on earth would I do that?"

Edward stared at her as if she had just fallen from the sky. A twisted smile of disbelief crossed his face as his mouth dropped open. "Because it's so clearly_ torturing _you?"

She swelled with so many conflicting emotions in that moment she thought she might be in danger of losing her head.

"It would only torture me more if he knew!" she hissed hysterically.

Edward tossed his arms into the air in frustration, still smiling insanely about the whole thing. "That doesn't make any sense!"

She shook her head fervently. "He can't know! I'm not ready," she whispered pleadingly. "Edward..." Her hand clutched his sleeve in desperation, and he looked down at her in pity.

"Esme, you're only making this harder for yourself," he warned wearily, dragging his fingers through his unruly hair.

She instinctively clutched her stomach, frightened by the sadly familiar, empty, ill sensation. "I don't care. I'm not ready," she repeated.

"How will you know when you _are_ ready?"

Her voice dropped beneath a whisper. "I may never know."

Edward's jaw tightened, but something in his dark eyes sparkled strangely, as though he were burning to tell her something more.

"Follow me," he offered quietly, taking her by the hand out of the ballroom. He weaved his way through the corridors until they came to Carlisle's study. He threw open the doors with ease and dragged her towards the desk from where a most fragrant scent was emanating.

Her eyes widened in confused surprise: the surface of Carlisle's desk was covered corner to corner, not with papers, not with medical instruments, not with candles, but with hundreds and hundreds of bright bouquets of flowers – the sunniest daffodils, and the sweetest roses, and the most vibrant violets, and the daintiest baby's breath, all of them artistically arranged into their own ornately ribboned baskets and vases.

"Good heavens! Where did they all come from?"

"Carlisle's patients," he chuckled. "It's that time of year."

She cocked her head in confusion.

With a hesitant grin, Edward walked her up to the odd display and plucked a single red rose from one of the carefully wrapped bouquets.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Esme."

Her heart sank heavily. She had forgotten.

In all her distress, she had forgotten the one day that would have made her torture ten times worse. And Edward was only trying to cheer her up.

"Oh..."

She accepted the stem with a limp hand, staring down at the fair blood-red petals in disgust and agony. If she could have cried, her teardrops would have landed in its velvet mouth, like crystal droplets of dew.

"I know it isn't what you wish it to be, but I can be a better Valentine than Carlisle can." He flashed her his most charming smile, and a sad little laugh spilled from her lips. "He can spend his entire day at the hospital making rounds while I'll stay home making you happy."

She laughed soundly in spite of the sobs that still trembled in her chest. It was so easy to laugh when Edward was with her. So easy that she almost forgot her problems, if just for a few moments at a time. He made an unlikely Valentine, but she was more than willing to call him hers.

Esme had to admit, the boy was faithful to his proposition. The old days of watching him compose at his piano, and sitting on the roof just talking together about nothing in particular were resurrected meticulously. And at the end of the evening, he told her that everything would fall into place when she least expected it. He promised that he would be here for her if she needed him, no matter what happened.

Edward could distract her so well when he wanted to, but deep down Esme knew that she was well past the point of leaving her worries behind entirely.

At midnight, Carlisle walked through the front door in all of his blond, doctorly splendor, carrying an armful of more basket blooms and small red and pink envelopes. She did not bother to meet him at the door, but she watched him discreetly from the top of the staircase as he gracefully balanced the light load of gifts. She could have been helpful to him that night, offering to hold things while he took off his coat in that familiar little ritual by the foyer closet. But she didn't help him. She couldn't bring herself to hold those flowers or those flirtatious notes of appreciation that were meant for his eyes only. She would have broken down and cried right there in front of him.

She watched him sigh and shift things from arm to arm and close the closet doors, and then he left her sight, carrying his gifts back to his study, the potent perfume of those flowers making her sick to her stomach.

She was not sorry that she hadn't greeted him at the door that night. Not sorry at all.

But part of her couldn't help wondering if he might have wished her a "_Happy Valentine's Day_," in that sweet, sincere lilt of his when he saw her face at the door. She would never know.

It was past midnight, anyway. It would have been too late.

She went and curled up in her useless bed, finding it surprisingly easy not to cry to herself, knowing he might have heard her and known the precise cause of her sadness. In her mind she thanked Edward deeply for his consideration, and even after she closed her eyes and stuffed her head beneath the pillows, she swore she heard his whispered words of acknowledgment before his piano drowned them out.

_"You should tell him."_

The memories of Edward's innocent warning began to make her wonder if she was doing the right thing by tucking herself away in the corner. Perhaps being silent was not so far from being dishonest. And Carlisle positively despised dishonesty. He would despise _her _as well, if he knew the things she kept from him. Not only the things she _could _tell him if she so desired, but the things she was ashamed to even have thought about with only herself for company. Things she did not even dare to think around Edward.

But because of her own carelessness, she now faced the daunting decision. To risk Edward's either intentional or involuntary revelation of her heart's deepest desires, or to confess her love for the doctor to his face, herself.

Either way she chose, Carlisle would inevitably come to know of her affections. The only question was how long would it be before he knew?

******-}0{-**

The following morning arrived with a half-hearted snowstorm, hopefully the last one they would see this season_. _

Esme watched the snow suffocate the floor-length windows of the ballroom while she worked to cover the very last wall panel in paint. She had been working on this damned room since the end of last summer; to see it finally finished was rather like having a heavy load lifted from her back that she hadn't realized was there.

Every gilded compartment now looked like a window to an exotic jungle rather than the pages of a crumbling love story. She furiously tamped down the part of her that missed the paintings underneath the layers of green and forced herself to feel proud of the new art she had created. And truly, it looked even more beautiful than she'd thought it would. The brightness of the green made her long for summer, and it stood out like the flashiest of emeralds – an ideal complement to the golden trim of each panel. In bold repetition around all four walls, it truly made the room look spectacular.

She wanted _him _to be the first one to see it all.

The doors to Carlisle's study had been left open, as if begging an intruder, and so Esme became an intruder.

If in that split second she decided to walk in on him, she had thought in the very back of her mind that she possessed the bravery, the right, and the forwardness to tell him of her feelings, she would have never found out. She had missed many an opportunity in the last few days, but she was truly not regretful of any one of them. What was meant to happen would happen. She needed to let go of her worries and let nature run its course.

Esme slipped between the open doors to the study, her feet stepping onto the familiar carpet like they would step into a warm bath. It was a relief to be in here again, even if Carlisle did not look particularly energetic this morning.

To her surprise, he wore a sulking expression - bleary-eyed and pouty, like a child who had received every present he _hadn't _asked for on Christmas morning. The ridiculous clouds of flowers framed his sullen face, their beauty blotted out by the golden gleam that persistently haloed his body. His eyes rose up to find her through the overbearing enclosure of blossoms, and he sighed in lament, his eyes longing for something that just did not exist. It pained her to see him looking that way, and why should he be so depressed when everyone so clearly loved him to pieces? One would think those flowers had been sent for his funeral.

"I see you have many grateful patients," Esme said warmly from the doorway, hoping to lift his spirits.

He gazed around the surface of his desk with a wan smile. "I don't see what I could possibly do with all of these flowers. They're just clutter, really," he said in an uncharacteristically bland tone as he lazily flicked the petal of a purple tulip with his finger.

She smiled tightly back at him and forced a cheerfulness into her voice. "Pretty clutter, though."

He looked up wearily, and as his eyes fell on her, the corner of his mouth found the sincerity to twitch the tiniest bit in appreciation. "Yes... pretty."

She shifted her feet uncomfortably. "I don't know if you're interested but...well, I finished painting the ballroom this morning."

His eyes opened a bit wider, and some of the wornness left his face. "Did you?" Even the tone of his voice lifted slightly as he rose from his chair. "I would love to see it."

Her legs started to tingle as he walked around the desk, and in a helpless reaction to his approach, she stepped shyly backwards in the direction of the door. The soles of both their shoes made light scrapes against the carpet, and that tiny sound was perhaps the most intimidating thing she had heard all day. With what she hoped was a disarming smile, she slipped ahead of him to lead in a quick flash down the hall leading to the ballroom.

She'd left the doors open, and even from a distance, the green and gold seemed to glow from the room, filling the dark hall with a regal light.

Carlisle stepped inside before her and took in the surroundings slower than even a human might when reviewing the room for the first time. "Oh, Esme. You've worked so hard," he said in soft wonder as he turned a full circle. "It's breathtaking."

_Breathtaking. He had called something she created breathtaking. _

She almost sobbed with joy. "Thank you."

The faint noise of scuffing shoes by the door behind her alerted her to Edward's presence, and immediately her nerves were calmed. The boy rested his scruffy head against the door frame and gazed around the room with the most interest she'd ever seen on his face as he regarded her artwork. He said nothing, but caught her eye and smiled at her knowingly as Carlisle continued to appraise the room with the most beautifully astounded expression.

"It is such a shame that no one but us will have the chance to see it," the doctor said regretfully as he crossed his arms and turned back to face her.

If only he'd known just how much that did _not_ matter to her. If only he'd known that just having _him _as her only audience would have been enough to satisfy her for life.

Edward pursed his lips as he stared at her, waiting for her response as well. Coolly, she shrugged with a pleasant smile. "I don't mind. It kept me occupied for the past six months."

She was somewhat surprised at the way Carlisle's eyebrows drew together in a mildly saddened expression. He looked down at the floor for a brief moment as though knowing this had made him terribly uncomfortable.

Edward took the moment to interject kindly, "Clearly all of your time paid off."

Esme sent him a grateful smile while Carlisle's eyes flickered to Edward's feet instead of his face.

"Yes, it looks lovely, Esme," Carlisle assured with a glorious but clearly strained smile. At least _she_ could tell when his smiles were strained.

"You're not still disappointed that I painted over the dancing debutantes?" she asked teasingly with the hopes to relieve whatever ailed him.

Her heart leapt with delight as she managed to elicit a grudging chuckle from him. His eyes were sparkly as he looked down at her with a sheepish smirk. "If I hadn't been cursed with a perfect memory, I believe I would have forgotten about that by now."

"Thank goodness."

They laughed easily now at the rather regretful reminiscence, as Edward's thoughtful eyes moved between them.

Esme liked to think she could read facial expressions just as well as Edward read thoughts, but it seemed an ironic necessity that Edward's face was impossible for anyone to read. Whatever he was thinking in that moment behind the curtained mystery of his mind, it was not regretful or unenthused or even dismissive.

But when she tried to name what she saw in those eyes that flickered with wise intensity, his face was too many things at once _–_ confused, relieved, curious... _awakened –_ too many emotions that made no sense when they were stirred into one.

Or perhaps they did, and she was only too blind to notice.

Perhaps she was blind to all that made sense in this world.

Edward gave a well-meaning roll of his eyes, and Esme took this as a gentle confirmation.

With a strange smile, he smoothly departed, leaving her alone again with Carlisle.

The breathy echoes of their laughter had since died down to leave the room in a wake of comfortable silence. But a silence so comfortable could not remain that way for long. Carlisle could only admire her artwork for so long before he had to find something else to claim his focus.

Esme gingerly stepped forward to brush an invisible line of dust off her painting, breathing a brief, musical sigh for effect.

She could almost feel Carlisle tense behind her. "Esme?"

"Hm?" She waited a moment before turning to face him.

His eyes were... _affectionate._ Distressingly so.

"Remember when you said little girls never outgrow their fondness for flowers?"

She giggled reminiscently. "Of course."

"Well, I was wondering if you were an exception." He stared at her meaningfully, a tender smile tugging one corner of his lips.

"No, I am not," she consented without a thought.

His smile blossomed freely. "Then...the 'pretty clutter' in my study? You can keep it."

Esme nearly bubbled over with elation, but she kept it hidden quite well. Deciding the moment too precious to pass over, she teased him a bit more.

"Whatever will _I_ do with all of those flowers?"

He shrugged. "Anything you want. With so many of them, you could probably reconstruct the Garden of Eden."

She laughed richly at the suggestion. Only Carlisle could inject a religious reference into something meant solely for humor.

But with this thought came another: If she _were _to reconstruct Eden, she would be more than willing to share it with him.

"Thank you," she murmured appreciatively. "For the flowers, and the suggestion."

His lips parted to respond, but his eyes were wandering almost inattentively across her face. She wondered what on earth he was searching for that he could not seem to find no matter how hard he looked.

"Is all forgiven between us, then?" he asked, so hesitantly she thought she felt a tear of joy trickle from her eye.

"Of course, Carlisle," she whispered sincerely, her words barely echoing in the grand room. The gold and green panels surrounding them seemed to melt into nothing but a confusing swirl as she tentatively lifted her arms and touched them to his shoulders, drawing him close for a hug.

His hands wrapped around the small of her back, and into her ears he whispered, "Happy... _belated_ Valentine's Day, Esme."

The echoes of their joined laughter made the ballroom that much more beautiful.

* * *

_**A/N: **_

**You can read this chapter from Carlisle's POV in Behind Stained Glass, "Chapter 29: Of Roses and Baby's Breath"**


	51. As the Clouds Cry

**Chapter 51:**

**As the Clouds Cry**

* * *

It was dark outside – so early in the morning, it looked like night. It may as well have been night.

Esme breathed in the scent of burning wood that came creeping through the cracks of the old house from upstairs where she was reading. The aroma had grown steadily stronger over the course of the cold night. Every hour it seemed, a billow of smoky perfume would meet her nose, distracting her from the words on the page.

The clock chimed five times to signal the oncoming morning, and she slipped her books back into the shelf with a sigh. Unable to ignore the suspicious scent any longer, Esme drew a blanket around her shoulders and ventured out into the hall.

The outside cellar doors opened and closed with a hearty thump, then Edward's voice mumbled something too low for her to decipher. His footsteps clomped down the stairs and then fell silent.

Esme's ears were roused by different footsteps, approaching the front door outside in the snow. A gust of cold air entered the foyer as Carlisle came inside, rushed to his study, then went back out again.

This series of actions had been going on all night. Until now, Esme hadn't cared to question Edward and Carlisle's odd antics. But having deemed their behavior a little too suspicious to ignore, she finally went downstairs to investigate.

Opening the front door, she noticed two bright orange lanterns had been left on the porch to light the pathway that led around the side of the house. The scent of burning wood was stronger outside, coming from somewhere further down the path, out of view.

Unexpectedly, Carlisle appeared suddenly out of the shadows, clutching a dimly lit lantern in one hand and a pair of gloves in the other.

He caught her staring and smiled wryly – if not a little apologetically – as if he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't, but was prepared to talk his way out of trouble.

"You've been out here all night," she accused from the doorway.

He reached the porch steps and set the lantern down on the ground by his feet, pulling the gloves over his hands. They looked like they fit him too tightly.

"Yes, I've been out here...all night," he admitted, somewhat amused.

Esme crossed her arms over her chest.

"I don't like it when you leave." Her voice was soft but displeased.

His shining golden eyes raised in light shock. "I don't leave," he defended.

"You aren't in the house," she pointed out.

"Why don't you come out, then?" he laughed gently, the orange lantern flickering over his amber eyes. Her stomach felt warm.

"Why can't you just come in?" she asked, making a spectacle of her shivering in the doorway.

"I want to walk." He smiled agreeably, flaunting his adorable pair of dimples.

Her teeth chattered. "Then walk the halls."

"I want to walk _outside_."

He was infuriating.

_Stay inside with me. Just stay inside, Carlisle. Stay in one place..._

She wanted to shout at him, but instead she sighed. The argument was circular. He wanted it to be that way. He was trapping her.

Carlisle tilted his head back in invitation, obliviously revealing the smooth strength of his throat, and something inside of Esme tingled, like her nerves were whispering, '_yes._'

His voice was gentle. "Come with me."

The multiplicity of the suggestion was not lost on her; briefly she wondered if he'd recognized it himself. He was still smiling, so it could have gone both ways.

His eyes were sparkling in an entirely chaste manner.

Good God, he _was_ oblivious.

"Yes. Fine." She muttered her way onto the porch, struggling to keep her shoes on as she shut the door behind her.

She huffed into the cold air, shrugging the cover over her shoulders, and she huddled closer to his side as he led her over the path. Too late after they had started walking into the darkness, she realized they'd left the lantern behind.

Carlisle didn't seem to care.

"I thought you hated the cold," she mentioned suspiciously.

He chuckled, low and breathy. "I do."

"Then why were you fumbling around out here all night?"

"I was burning some documents," he explained as they came up to the small fire by the shed.

"So that's where all the smoke was coming from." Esme wrinkled her nose, even though the scent of charred papers was suddenly somewhat pleasant knowing Carlisle had been the one responsible for it.

He tossed another pile of bound papers into the flames then settled down on a fallen log beside the fire.

Taking the subtle invitation, Esme stumbled awkwardly through the thick snow to his side. It sometimes worked to her advantage to pretend that a vampire's grace did not come naturally for her.

His laughter was warm and slightly rough in the loveliest way as he helped her down easily with his arm. "Don't injure yourself."

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling at her own expense, wondering if he knew that she was only teasing him by tripping over her own feet.

Her eyes swerved back up to catch a glimpse of his profile as he watched the fire. He was peaceful this way, she noticed. More often than not, fire seemed to complement Carlisle's face with fine grace. He seemed content, not lost in thought; for once, purely thoughtless. The expression made her smile.

The longer she watched him, the more obvious it must have been to him that she was staring. Subtly, the muscles in his cheeks began to twitch, and in the moment an abrupt but blinding smile burst on his face, he turned to her and choked lightly on the word. "What?"

"Nothing," she gasped, lifting her hands in defense as he settled from his brief, nervous laughter. "It's just... If I'd known you were out here just watching the fire all by yourself, I might have come out sooner—"

"No, no." He waved his hand, looking slightly embarrassed. "Edward was with me for a while. You were reading. I didn't want to bother you."

"You're never a bother to me," she reassured quietly.

He chewed his lip a little bit, his eyes flitting everywhere _but _her, and she had to wonder what he was thinking.

He never answered her.

"I turned my library into a garden," she aided the quiet with a happier topic. "With the 'Valentine' flowers you gave me."

He pulled several fingers sheepishly down the side of his face and chuckled. "They don't last very long in this weather."

"Yes, many of them are already dead," she informed bluntly.

He scoffed in amusement. "That was bound to happen after a week or two."

"It's all right," she shrugged cheerfully. "They still keep me company."

"Company," Carlisle repeated the word, so reverent a whisper that Esme almost burst into tears.

Her eyes went up to his face, studying his profile with something close to wanton obsession. He looked positively torn between sadness and profound gratitude.

"The next time you're alone out here, tell me. Right away." She was forceful with her words, but gentle with her tone. A bit motherly, but this was the way Esme spoke sometimes without even knowing it.

Carlisle stared at her, his gaze sharp but unreadable.

"It isn't a problem for me anymore," he said in soft defense. "Being alone."

She all but interrupted him, her voice a fierce whisper. "I don't believe that."

His jaw tightened slightly, and her fingers ached to travel along the smooth line of it, to chase the tension away.

Why not ease this ache? She thought for a second, it was possible. For a second, whom she seized, it was reality.

Tenderly, her fingers flickered over his chin. His skin was soft. Softer than she thought it would be.

The rippling light from the yellow flames danced in his dark eyes. He was absolutely still.

Her lips parted. Then slowly, softly, his eyelids slipped closed.

The stirring scent of his breath was warm and soothing, like apple butter – sweet but rich.

"You're not arguing with me, Carlisle," she marveled, her tone a loving admonishment.

"Do you expect me to?" he rasped from behind closed eyes. His brows lifted gently when she did not answer.

She shook her head.

Her hands were bare. His were still gloved. She noticed this only when he lifted his hand to hold hers against his jaw.

"I hate that you ever have to feel alone," she said, her voice stronger now, but quiet enough not to stir the sun which had yet to rise.

Carlisle opened his eyes.

"There is a difference between being alone and being lonely," he whispered wisely.

"Were you lonely?" she asked, her fingers shaking slightly where he trapped them against his skin.

He drew back his face, taking the heat of his gaze to a simmer. "That isn't the question you meant to ask."

Her chest tightened in confirmation, and she drank the chilly air into her lungs.

"_Are _you lonely?" she breathed guiltily.

He smiled. It wasn't sad, but it wasn't particularly jubilant either. It was just a simple smile.

"No."

She stirred restlessly beside him, pulling her fingers down from his chin. His hand still held to hers.

"Will you come inside now?"

He nodded. "Yes."

With a knowing smile of her own, Esme lifted herself to her feet in the snow, tugging his hand up with her.

"Come with me," she quoted him.

She laughed, and Carlisle was happily confused by her laughter as she dragged him back to the house.

Their short time together was bittersweet, however, as Carlisle prepared to leave for the hospital as soon as the sun rose.

Esme was slightly disappointed that he had not stayed to watch the sunrise with her and Edward from their favorite spot on the roof. It wasn't as pleasant being covered with ice, but they enjoyed it enough to do it in sub-zero weather occasionally.

Carlisle wore approximately twenty layers before he left the house that morning. Edward wore about one and a half.

The preciousness of warmth was not taken for granted by the doctor. Neither was a proper goodbye.

"I still smell like smoke," he said in a hilariously bemused tone as he stood facing the doorway, his scarf halfway around his neck, and his hands still in an absent struggle to work the gloves over his fingers.

Esme giggled, straightening his scarf with a flick of her fingers. "Your patients will think you caught on fire. You do spend quite a lot of time in front of the fireplace."

"At least you'll have a somewhat exciting excuse for why you were so late," Edward added pointedly from the stairs, snapping his father back to life from his awkward reverie.

Carlisle gave an agitated grunt as he stuffed the stethoscope into his bag and tried for the last time to fit just one leather glove over his hand.

"Your hands are quite large," Esme commented absently.

Carlisle gave her an awkward look. Edward laughed.

"For the gloves," she finished hastily, flaming inside. She reached over to pinch the leather. "These gloves are too small."

A crestfallen expression crossed Carlisle's features as he sighed and gave up trying to squeeze his hands into the gloves. He handed them to Esme.

"Well, they're of no use then, I suppose."

They could be of no use just as well in the back of her nightstand drawer.

Esme beamed inwardly, clutching the useless pair of leather gloves just a bit tighter.

Carlisle opened the front door, letting in a breeze of icy air. "I'll be back early today."

"How early?" Esme demanded before she could censor herself.

Edward snorted softly behind her.

Carlisle's eyes glowed. "Very. Really, very...early."

She accepted the stuttered promise with a pleased smile. "Good."

Edward tapped his foot on the step while Esme embraced Carlisle hastily, and then she sent him rushing out the door.

"How early is 'very early'?" she asked Edward as soon as they heard the engine start.

******-}0{-**

Much to Esme's delight, "very early" lived up to its name.

Anticipating that the doctor would be gone longer than he'd claimed, she had promised Edward a full lesson in oil painting before Carlisle's return.

It so happened that Carlisle had welcomed himself home while they were discussing the finer points of arbitrary colors.

Esme was aware that Carlisle was watching Edward and her from the doorway. He was just standing there in the threshold behind them, disconcertingly quiet, but without a doubt attentive. He'd been there for nearly ten minutes now, scarcely breathing. Just watching.

For this reason, her antics were slightly more theatrical than they would have otherwise been.

"Why the hell would I put _purple _in the snow, Esme?" Edward demanded, nearly snapping the paintbrush in half as he slapped it against the canvas. She'd imagined he would take her unique advice a bit personally.

"Use your imagination, darling," Esme struggled not to laugh as she waved a finger toward the window. "Can't you see the hints of violet when the sun hits it just so?"

"Umm..."

"Trust me, there's purple in the snow," she insisted.

He sniggered softly. "You know, I think I see some orange!"

"I don't appreciate being mocked, Edward."

Despite the uselessness of her efforts, Esme still tried to conceal her smile.

Edward heaved a groan of frustration as he stood back from the canvas with his hands on his hips. "This is no good."

"You have to be patient."

"Maybe I should sit you down at the piano for an hour, and see what _you_ can come up with."

She sent him a simpering smile and fluttered her lashes with mocking enthusiasm. "I think that's a lovely idea."

"Hah. I don't think I've got the patience to teach you any more than I already have."

"Then I haven't the patience to teach _you_," she retorted.

"I'll teach myself," he said, straightening up to his full height. "It's not that hard."

Wiping her hands on a dry cloth, Esme walked over to survey Edward's partially painted canvas. The strokes were liberal, and clearly impatient, but there was no denying a certain charm to the piece, even in its early stages. It had potential.

"You know you're off to a very impressive start, Edward."

He sent her a glare from the corner of his eye.

"I'm not just saying that, truly!" she assured enthusiastically. "I love what you've done here." She bent in closer and swept her finger over the center of the canvas where several strokes of pastel colors met with a passionate clash.

Seizing the compliment, Edward eagerly lifted his discarded paintbrush to the site and attempted to enhance it to her liking.

"No, no! Don't ruin it!" she gasped, pulling the brush away before he could cover the aesthetic imperfections. "You have to let it dry properly before you can add the details."

The paintbrush finally snapped.

"Oils are maddening," he declared with an exasperated sigh. "I want to try watercolors."

She bit her lip to hold in a fond laugh.

"I have some watercolors upstairs." She sent him a fleeting mental picture of their relative location, and he waited not a moment before dropping his wasted oil paints in the basin.

"I'll go get them."

Her eyes followed Edward as he rushed for the door, and subconsciously her gaze drifted to Carlisle where he'd been observing their scene silently from the doorway. He leaned lazily against the wall, moving slightly out of the way as Edward passed through. His eyes never left her the entire time.

"You've been awfully quiet," she said amusedly once Edward was gone. "I'd hardly realized you were here."

_Lies._

Carlisle only smiled wearily at her, something strange at a steady simmer in his eyes.

With a heavy sigh, he straightened to his full height and walked over to her. "My son is terribly ungrateful for all your efforts to teach him," he whispered teasingly.

Edward, strangely enough, made no comment to show he had heard this from upstairs.

"He has every right to be stubborn," Esme said with a smile. "And he's right, anyway. I would probably be just as frustrated to learn just one song by myself on the piano."

Carlisle looked distant.

She cocked her head curiously. "Are you all right?"

He nodded.

Unsatisfied, but hoping not to press the matter further, she returned to her canvas with him standing behind her.

Painting was twice as thrilling, but also twice as challenging whenever he first started watching her.

"Oh, I've ruined it yet again," she whimpered with a soft chuckle of frustration as she struggled to smooth the muddled colors of a distant snow bank.

He shook his head. "Everything you do looks perfect."

"Surely you jest, Doctor."

His eyes were heady with something so terribly warm, she all but scoffed in scandal as she tore her gaze away.

"This is my favorite," he said softly as he leaned closer to point out a section of the canvas she hadn't thought to be anything special at all. "Right in here, every nuance in the colors... I don't know how you do it."

_Oh, but he must have known. He had done it himself in the painting hidden upstairs._

"I'm guessing I need some water if I'm going to use watercolors," Edward mumbled from the doorway.

Both Carlisle and Esme turned to look back at him in heavier interest than they probably realized. Edward just stared strangely, his mouth twitching as if to contain a snigger.

Esme wanted to say something in response to the boy, but her lips were caught in a strange slur of words that never quite made it past the tip of her tongue.

Edward cautiously backed into hall, leaving them alone again.

It wouldn't take him very long to fetch water. They could be just fine until he came back.

Carlisle sighed in resignation. His eyes were sad as he looked from the window to Esme's painting.

"What is it?" she pressed gently.

"Hm? Oh, nothing. I'm fine."

She tilted her head again, but did not narrow her eyes. Esme recognized that she must be gentle with Carlisle when he acted this way. Only with the most careful coaxing would he feel secure enough to open up to her when something was bothering him. She knew this now.

She laid her paintbrush down on the table, and before she could allow herself to over-think it, she reached out and touched his arm. "Carlisle, I can see something is wrong. You don't have to hide it. You can tell me anything, remember?"

These words were his. He had used them before, to comfort _her. _

But both of them had yet to take the most advantage of this offer.

Carlisle looked to be considering it, now.

"I made an incorrect diagnosis today," he said lightly as his fingers raked stressfully through his blond hair. "It may have cost my patient his life."

Something in her had been expecting precisely this, but just hearing it out loud, confirmed by his tentative voice was still a little jarring. Esme gaped for a few moments while she gathered the right words to say.

She sighed. "It happens to all doctors... doesn't it?"

He winced a little.

_Wrong thing to say._

His voice held a deep edge to it as he responded, "I have less tolerance for such mistakes because of... what I am, Esme."

At this, Esme's heart was slightly outraged.

"What you _are _is a doctor. In the hospital, that is what you are," her words poured out, firm but with fiercest care. "You have as much right to be mistaken about something as the next doctor. Being so hard on yourself just because you aren't _human _is wrong, Carlisle. You should know that."

These words! Wherever where they coming from? And so _bold_ they felt as she said them. She shouldn't have _dared _to speak to Carlisle like this, and yet... he was receiving it with a look of wonder. Like _she_ was the very font of wisdom in his world. It was intoxicating and slightly overwhelming. But brilliant.

She felt strong.

She had almost been ready to apologize, but then... why would she?

So instead she stared up at him, firm but gentle-eyed, warm with this new strength she had discovered deep within.

Something was telling her that Carlisle may have _needed _her to be this way. He needed someone to be passionate with him – in more ways than one.

"You're right," he said simply. "I should know that."

Her hand on his arm slipped a little – from the elbow, to the forearm, to the wrist.

"You're a wonderful doctor. Nothing can change that," she assured. "Even the best doctors make mistakes. It's... _human_ to make mistakes."

She dared to say it. He may have cringed a little, but it was the only way she was sure her words had sunk in. He needed to hear it.

But she could see that this was not all that was bothering him. Tentatively, she tightened her hold on his wrist and tilted her head to the side, staring up at his eyes.

"There's more?" she guessed.

He nodded.

"Tell me?"

He sighed. "A patient of mine passed away while...giving birth to her son." He looked up at the window, eyes bright with unshed venom tears. "The boy lived. His mother is gone."

Immediately, Esme put the pieces together. Carlisle's emotional response to this particular incident would not have been any less strong for his compassion, but this was his very past coming back to haunt him.

"I was reminded..." He choked slightly on the words, losing his voice to the grips of emotion. There was nothing more heartbreaking to Esme than watching Carlisle stumble on his words. It was such a discomfiting contrast to his usual eloquence. His words would not cut off suddenly; they instead slimmed away so softly that it seemed he would continue the sentence in just a moment's time... but he never did.

With her free hand, Esme took hold of Carlisle's arm and forced his eyes to meet hers.

"Shhh," she hushed him gently, rubbing her palm over his sleeve. "I know," she finished simply, assuring him with her gaze that no more words were needed. "I know."

A distant shuffling sound in the hall that may have been Edward's footsteps melted into the background as they stared at each other, in an intense but strangely understanding way. No other words needed to be said – they would only serve to ruin this beautiful eye lock.

Her fingers finally traveled from his wrist down to his hand. She pried his fingers away from his palm to open it, reached for her paint brush, and into his hand it went.

Carlisle's fingers hesitated for a brief moment before they closed around it. As his eyes rose to meet hers they were gleaming with gratefulness.

With a forgiving smile, she nudged him to stand before her half-finished canvas.

Laying her head against his shoulder, she asked quietly, "What colors do _you_ see in the snow?"

******-}0{-**

It was fortunate that they had all managed to finish their paintings of the snowy yard behind their house before it had all vanished before their very eyes.

The winter carelessly abandoned Wisconsin sometime in the middle of March. Stray blocks of ice and small piles of leftover snow still lingered on the otherwise healthy green landscape, making for a hilarious juxtaposition of the two seasons. Spring won the duel with a quick and easy hand, and for its heroic defeat, Esme could not have been more thrilled.

The crisp freeze of winter's residue lingered in the mornings, however. Before the sun would rise, snow might fall during the darker hours, but it never quite found the strength to stick around. There was frost on the ground, and the land was mostly barren. The scent of the world was changing, though. She could sense it. A floral note was fragrant behind that frost. Something full of life was burning like soft smoke from an unseen fire in the distant yonder. It called to her, and she opened the window to reply to it.

This morning it was not snowing. It was raining - the first rain of the season, and it was glorious.

Droplets plummeted from the clouds like gray juice, coating the air in moisture. It tasted like life and it sounded like sensuality. There was nothing quite like hearing, tasting, feeling, and smelling _rain _again.

"Can you believe you were once excited to see it snowing outside?" Carlisle asked. His voice was deep and low behind her, like the voice of an abandoned lover still reclining in a bedroom filled with shadows.

Esme's throat was tight as she managed a small chuckle. "Snow would seem like a curse now."

"I always find myself missing the rain during the winter," he murmured in the same indecently low voice.

She looked back to him curiously, but his eyes were guarded, flush with reflections of the shimmering atmosphere outside the open window. The collar on his shirt was unbuttoned again. Lately it seemed she was catching him with it like that more and more often.

"Something about the rain is very...pensive," he continued, placing his hand on the pane of the window. "There's a romance about it."

A sweet chill swept up her back. "Some would call it 'depressing.'"

He smiled wisely. "Now why would they say that?"

"The clouds are crying," she said with a simple sigh.

He looked out at the sky, his eyes amazingly sympathetic just from her teasing words.

_Oh, his heart was so tender._

"Say something to cheer them up, Carlisle," she suggested warmly.

"More tears will bring more to life," he murmured at last, his tone rich with wisdom.

"Don't you think that will encourage the clouds to cry harder?" she challenged softly.

He thought, then tilted his head back with a heartfelt smile. "Perhaps... But they would weep tears of joy now, I should think."

This brought a smile of silent agreement to Esme's face. She stared up at the window, and her eyes reflected the clear, cool tears of a cloud.

Something about the steady rhythm of the rain made her feel safe and secure. The hard yet gentle sound seemed to encourage the sharing of secrets, drowning out the shame that may have accompanied such an intimate exchange.

It was with the rain's encouragement that Esme felt safe enough to ask Carlisle a more personal question.

"Do you ever miss being able to cry?"

The slickness of the raindrops taunted his eyes as he gazed through the glass, his hand coming out of his pocket to push the curtain back further.

"All of the time."

She had not been expecting the timbre of his reply to be so raggedly passionate. The dust of a piercing desire flirted with the edges of his soft voice.

"Sadness feels so dissatisfying when I am unable to produce tears," he said, staring out the window as if he were staring through the iron bars of a prison cell. "Ever since the very beginning I've felt this way." His eyes turned away from the window in thought. "I almost miss it more than sleep."

"Yes, I think it is sleep I miss the most," Esme agreed with a nod, breathless from his personal confession. "Do you know what else I miss?" she asked, further fascinated by the intrigue written on his face as she offered it. He raised his eyebrows in permission for her to continue. "Drinking water."

She worried that it would sound foolish when she said it, but the way he looked at her made her feel as if nothing she said could ever sound foolish.

"I've never really thought about that before. It's been too long for me to remember the taste of water," he whispered as he opened the window just enough to slip his hand through. Esme watched in pleasant curiosity as he then reached out to collect raindrops in his open hand. "I'm rather ashamed to admit this, but I have trouble imagining anything could have tasted more appealing than blood tastes to me now." He turned his eyes toward her timidly, as if this confession would in some way disgust her.

"I don't think that's shameful," she said quietly. Her eyes followed the somber path of the water droplets as they sparkled and slipped over his beautiful white fingers. They congregated happily in the cup of his palm, filling him fast, as if they somehow knew the hand of a generous man when they saw it.

Oblivious to her raindrop-envy, Carlisle smiled graciously and took one step closer to where she stood.

"It is what it is," he whispered with an accepting sigh, his broad shoulder blocking the faint light from the window. His shadow swallowed her whole, leaving her no way to escape.

A little bud of lust burst inside her belly as he lifted his hand, still cupping the water, up for her to see. Without thinking, she brought her hand over his curved palm and carefully dipped the tips of her fingers into the water then raised them up again, letting tiny droplets ripple on the surface.

"They look like diamonds," she whispered, an enchanted smile on her face.

Her eyes wandered up to his face to find him staring at her, his eyes like swords, digging straight into her soul. Feeling deliriously vulnerable, she suddenly wondered how the water in his hand had become twice as warm as it was before.

Carlisle's eyes lowered slowly, a nervous hint of a half-smile on his lips, as if what he was looking at was too intimate to bear.

Esme suddenly worried that her heart was entirely in control of her actions, for the next thing she knew, she was instead letting the droplets fall directly onto his fingertips, watching them slide down his fingers into the pool of water in his palm.

He smiled gently at her antics and breathed a tiny laugh, his fingers twitching as the water trailed down them. His laughter aroused a curious sensation in her stomach, rather like the skin of a peach being peeled back slowly, exposing the succulent flesh of her most secret longings. Though it was ridiculous, she worried that he could see her innermost feelings in that moment, and her fear forced her fingers to retreat from his hand.

His smile faded softly as he leaned toward the window and parted his fingers to let the water spill from his hand into the grass outside. He turned his hand over in the light for a brief time, watching the way the remaining droplets clung to his skin.

Before she realized what was happening, he had taken her wrist in a gentle, moist grip and guided her towards the open window. A tiny gasp fled her mouth as he cupped his wet palm under the back of her hand and held her still until her palm was filled with rain as his had been.

Once the water started spilling over the sides, he slowly pulled her hand back inside the house. Her skin still felt pleasantly damp where he'd held her wrist.

"Why did you do that?" she asked with a confused giggle, holding her hand stiffly so as not to spill the water.

He smiled mysteriously before guiding her toward the other side of his desk where a small, medicinal looking herb was growing in a terracotta bowl.

"It's thirsty," he said, like a child telling a secret.

Esme grinned and approached the little plant, turning her hand over to spill the life-giving water into the soil. As she bent closer to watch the water vanish, she caught the scent of the leaves – a warm, minty fragrance that was almost familiar.

"What is this plant?" she asked, fingering the thin green leaves.

"Costmary," he replied softly.

She did not recognize the name, and this only puzzled her more. "Why does it smell so familiar to me?" she wondered out loud.

He came up behind her. "When you were growing up, your farmhouse had a garden out front, did it not?"

The memory of her childhood home strained to resurface, and idly she nodded.

"I recall this scent being in your house when I first came to see you, Esme. I believe your mother used to keep it in her kitchen."

"Yes...I think she may have. Costmary, you say?" she repeated the name, trying to summon its familiarity.

He chuckled. "Yes. But in my time it was called a 'Bible leaf'."

"That's a curious name."

A small smile crossed his face as he reached over to pluck a leaf from the herb. "We called it that because we used it to mark the pages in our Bibles while studying. Whenever we became too tired to continue reading, we would crush the end of the leaf and release the scent to help us stay awake."

He demonstrated by rubbing the tiny leaf between his forefingers until its invigorating scent was freed to the air. Along with the moisture from the rain outside, it was especially rousing to the senses.

Finding this practice strangely humorous, Esme laughed. "Did you often fall asleep while reading your Bible?"

"Not as often as the other boys did, of course," he teased, tossing the leaf into the pot.

"You obviously don't need help from any old leaf to keep from falling asleep while you read now," she remarked, her eyes glinting with amusement. "So why are you growing costmary in your study?"

He briefly chewed his bottom lip before replying, "For pure reminiscence, I suppose." He tapped his fingers sheepishly against his thigh. "It's a bit silly, but I've started keeping a leaf in each of my books for old time's sake."

A warm wave of unfathomable fondness swept through her heart. "You cling to your humanity in the most peculiar ways, Carlisle."

The look on his face told her he would have been blushing furiously if he were human. "Edward has helped break many of my more foolish habits," he said hastily. "Not a year ago I used to carry a glass of water around the house with me," he said with an embarrassed chuckle.

She smiled but did not laugh. "I don't think that's foolish at all. I think it is...endearing."

The corner of his lip turned up shyly, offering a fleeting view of the dimple in his right cheek. He opened his mouth to speak but quickly decided against it, his expression delicately mortified as he ducked his head and began picking at the plant's limp little leaves. In that moment his bashfulness was more potent than the strong aroma of crushed herb in the room.

Taking pity on him, she reached out and stilled his restless fingers with a comforting touch. "Carlisle, your fingers will smell like costmary for the rest of the day," she warned him gleefully, discouraging him from further contact with the leaves.

A light gasp of a laugh fled his lips, and he looked down at their tangled fingers. Her neck suddenly felt hot as she watched his hand gently twist within her own. Their palms were pressed together, still wet with rain water, scented and sweet. She swallowed a lump in her throat and attempted to pull her hand away, but his fingers were too strong.

"Do you ever stop and wonder at how amazing our hands are?" he murmured, turning her hand over in wonder as he held it.

She looked up at his face in shock, never before more blatantly aware of how common a wonder it was. He licked his lip, that same soft, sheepish look on his face.

"When you think of all that they can do, it really is wonderful," he sighed, spreading the earthy moisture across her palm to the ends of her fingertips with his painstakingly gentle touch.

Esme closed her eyes briefly to regain her composure, thinking of precisely how many "wonderful" things they could do with their hands, specifically _to each other. _Her heart somehow learned how to pound again as she realized how _his _hands had proved particularly wonderful – saving lives, writing poetry, sculpting and carving, and crushing the innocent little leaves of herbs to release their scent.

"It is," she agreed, her voice raspy. "It is wonderful."

His fingers gave her hand one last tender squeeze before he let go of her with a sleepy smile. "That is one thing that does not change with the transformation," he murmured to himself.

A most glorious scent filled her nose as she looked up at him. It was a raw, sweet smell – a mixture of earth and rain and happiness. It made her feel giddy and hot all over.

She barely had time to wonder where it had come from before he asked her, "Would you like to take one?"

Distracted as she was by the mysterious scent, Esme blinked a few times in confusion to clear her head. "Hm?"

"A 'Bible leaf'," he said with a charming smile, pointing to the potted herb on his desk.

"I suppose I could use it while I'm reading," she joked, plucking a smaller leaf from the plant to put in her pocket. "I wouldn't want to fall asleep."

Another deep breath brought the welcome fragrance back into her lungs. It was heavier now, sweeter than before. It was most definitely not the plant, she decided. It was too strong, too exotic to be that. She felt a tickle in her throat and a pleasant thump in her heart.

"You do miss it, though, don't you?" Carlisle asked her.

Still distracted, Esme reluctantly repeated the question. "Miss what?"

"Falling asleep," he whispered, his voice terribly soft.

Oh, how many times had she wished to fall asleep? Too many.

"I think I would miss it more if I could remember what it felt like," she murmured, watching as he turned his head to look out the rainy window. He lifted one bent arm to rest his elbow against the glass, supporting his head against his fist. A lock of fair blond hair tumbled out of place on his forehead as he shook his head slowly in wonder.

"I do long for it sometimes – to give into sleep, to surrender to a dream," he confessed, his words as smooth as they were deep, and somehow secretive. "To escape the world in bliss for those few precious hours before the sun would rise again."

His voice burned a hole straight through her soul as she listened to it. It was the way his eyes stared so honestly out through the rain, the way he trusted her so fully to speak in such intimate tones, the way the raindrops' reflections streamed down his face like real tears while he spoke.

"Well, when you put it that way..." she considered breathlessly, her body swaying slightly where she stood.

Everything was suddenly too intimate for her heart to handle. Being so close to Carlisle in the place he called his haven while the rain beat down around them...

"It is appealing, isn't it?" he whispered knowingly.

Squeezing her eyes shut to try and brace herself from the desire and nerves, she answered in a small, strained voice. "We shouldn't wish for what we cannot have."

"That is true," he said with a sigh. He seemed unaware of her distress, his gaze preoccupied with the scene outside. "But do you believe it is possible, that sometimes the things we wish for are already in our grasp?"

It was then that he turned to her, his face full of unfamiliar confidence, his eyes smoldering like the embers of a lavish fire. His arm dropped to his side as he stood up proud and straight before her, his body becoming tense with a tender attention. Everything in his demeanor had changed drastically in the instant it took him to finish the sentence. She had no idea what had caused it. Perhaps it had something to do with the intoxicating scent that taken over his study.

His lips opened slightly as he stared at her, expecting a response.

Barely able to manage more than a whisper, Esme replied mutely, "Yes, sometimes I do wonder..."

He stepped forward. "Esme…"

The air shifted around her, becoming tighter, warmer.

Was this it? Was this _the moment?_

She could see something so different, so new shining in his eyes. Yet now that she was seeing it, it was not something she wanted to see. It was like a magical spell gone horribly wrong.

His chest lifted with each breath as he stood across from her, so close that their hands were only inches apart where they hung helplessly at their sides.

The scent was so strong by now, she felt about to faint from the strength of it. She could not tell if it was only the frightening fragrance or his nearness alone that was injecting her with such wanton fear.

Was it only him? Was that all that was driving her mad inside?

No, it could not have been just him, she decided. Then a new spark of fear filled her chest.

Had he accidentally left a vial of blood open from one of their tests? Was there fresh blood spilling at this very moment inside that cabinet just behind his desk?

It was the only way she could explain the scent. It was too consuming to be anything other than blood. Now she was certain of it.

A soft moan escaped her lips, a fervently telltale sound she instantly regretted making. All at once the fire in Carlisle's eyes changed from calm to raging.

But it was not from arousal.

And nor was the sound she uttered.

There _was_ blood in the air. She could _feel _it as much as she could smell it. She could even _hear _it – beating, pulsing, racing.

This was not the blood in any vial. This was not even the blood of any animal.

This was the blood of a living, breathing human. And it was coming closer by the instant.

* * *

**So, will Esme succeed in her restraint with blood this time? We will find out in the next chapter! **

**You can find this chapter from Carlisle's POV in **_**Behind Stained Glass**_**, "Chapter 30: Hot-Blooded Surrender"**


	52. Slightly Incredible

**Chapter 52:**

**Slightly Incredible**

* * *

For all her success in preparing herself for the temptation of blood, Esme found herself in a startling state of panic.

In the instant she caught the truth of the scent, she felt herself being pushed harshly against the glass door that led outside from Carlisle's study. Her mind had entered that disturbing realm of blankness again. It was a familiar sensation, a separate cognitive world she entered only when blood was ruling the air around her. It was as terrifying as she remembered.

Her instinct could only focus on one thing: finding and drinking the human's blood she could smell.

_"Run!"_ She could hear Carlisle ordering her in a muffled, distant voice. "_Esme, for God's sake, run!" _His desperation filled her chest with a burning terror, and the soles of her feet with flames of urgency. But for all the heat of panic, she was still frozen in place.

Suddenly, the back of Edward's bronze head appeared in front of her eyes as she felt the strength of two pairs of arms pushing and pulling her in different directions. She could hear dueling male voices in the room around her, whose words made not a speck of sense. Her eyes seemed to see everything in slow motion as the glass door was thrust open, and she was being dragged outside onto the porch. Whoever held her captive now twisted her arms with the effort to pull her along through the torrential rain towards the forest.

Esme's arms felt as if they were being pulled from their sockets, and the smooth lawn felt like sandpaper on the bottom of her feet. She thrashed and screamed wildly as the scent of blood grew stronger, a consuming force that made her eyes see red and her heart explode inside her chest. But under the haze of her reckless desire, she could make out that faint, defiant sparkle of resistance. She remembered the way Carlisle's voice had sounded when he held her on the floor that day she killed her first victim. She remembered the frightened blue eyes of the child she had knocked to the ground in her mindless frenzy. The last thing Esme wanted was to see those things again. Just the thought of it made her stomach queasy with the hardy weight of guilt.

She thrashed against her captor at the thought, loathe to keep going where danger surely would seek her out.

The voice she heard shouting in the midst of the rain belonged to Edward. He was the one who pulled her along. He was the one she was thoughtlessly resisting. She still could not understand his words, but the rough authority in his tone was somehow comforting. He was doing everything possible to keep her under control. Even though she could not even hear what he was saying to her, she was satisfied to hear that he was clearly admonishing her. She deserved nothing less.

The rain felt hard and unforgiving against her back as Edward pulled her roughly forward in the path he had chosen. She thought that soon the shadows of the forest would be hovering above them, but as the wetness began to overwhelm her feet and ankles, she realized she was being carried directly into the waters of Lake Cordial.

She knew what Edward was doing, but her body defied him still. She knew he wanted to protect her, but the part of her mind that could only think of the blood was still trying to fight him.

"Under the water, Esme!" he shouted over the thunder and rain. "Get under the water! I'm going with you, come on! We have to get you away from the scent!" His young face was so urgent, so desperate. Flecks of raindrops made his eyes squint, his wet hair drooping on his forehead and around his ears. He took her hands and rubbed his forehead forcefully against hers. "I'll be right here, just come under with me, and you'll be fine!"

She wanted to obey him. She wanted to, so dearly.

But all she could do was scream at him and push him away in protest. The scent was growing fainter now, and all she wanted was to go after it. She needed to follow it to the ends of the earth, to take it for her own.

"Esme! Dammit! Get under the water!" Edward cried, his frustration getting the better of him. Her instincts had fooled into thinking she should feel threatened by his anger, and it only made her want to resist him more.

She opened her mouth, and a loud wail of distress fled her throat, the scraping sensation of dire thirst forcing her into an immediate state of violence. Her arms suddenly became twice as strong, able to lift Edward's lanky form out of the water and across the surface. He landed with a heavy splash at least a dozen feet away, and as the rain poured on, she quickly lost sight of him. It was just enough time for her to flee the scene before he could follow.

The rain was so hard and Esme's thirst was so great that she could barely make out her path of escape. Her delirious thoughts were flying a mile a second; every decision she wanted to make barely made any sense when she tried to think it through, but she kept on moving in the same direction, toward deeper waters, toward the scent that called to her...

But the scent that now called to her was not the scent of the blood.

All her watery eyes could see was a wall of black and blue. Into the wall she immersed herself, into the scent that protected her from the terrors around her. She felt a circle of strength descend firmly around her body, a soothing voice overhead whispering words of nonsense that somehow assured her it would be all right.

She trusted the voice, and she trusted the arms that held her. Her breath cut short as she felt her head being pressed down gently until her chin touched the choppy waters of the lake. The voice murmured more unheard words, and the arms held her waist tighter. A sense of peace replaced the fear she felt as she let her head submerge.

A mild panic rose in Esme's chest as her eyes snapped closed and the air was cut off from her lungs. But in the heavy, frightening silence, the presence of her guardian assured her that everything would be fine.

By the will of a miracle, her struggling ceased, and she let herself sink slowly beneath the water, deeper and deeper...

Far beneath the surface of the lake, the pressure was uncomfortably harsh, but all Esme do was lie limply in the arms of the one who held her. She felt the cold, smooth cheek of another face press against hers, then a fantastically gentle touch so painfully close to her lips.

Her eyes shut tightly as the water pushed and pulled around her in unpredictable currents. She realized dimly that she was still sinking, and the currents grew calmer the deeper she sank. But her body was still confined to a mysterious embrace, locked to the body of another - a weight that pulled her steadily downward until she felt her knees land in the cool sludge at the bottom.

The silence was almost tranquil this deep down beneath the surface. Here it truly felt like nothing could harm her. As the haze of her thirst slowly wilted in her throat, Esme almost thought it would be nice to stay here forever and never go back to the land above.

She burrowed her face closer to the body that cradled hers, finding holding her breath to be even more effortless than it was before.

She did not know how long she remained there, buried beneath the cold, calm waters of the lake. She could distantly make out the sound of the storm far above her, the patter of raindrops as they landed on the waves. The surface of the lake was like a fine, glassy shield that kept out all temptations and dangers. Esme held tighter to the weight that held her down, never wanting to let go for fear that she would float helplessly to the top and be snatched by the claws of desire again.

Her mind began to clear slowly but surely the longer she kept away from the surface. The absence of air felt so strange, but without a breath to take in the tempting scent, her mind was gradually clearing. Her body tensed with sudden embarrassment as she realized what must have happened.

The arms that held her tightened gently, the grip of two capable hands curving in closer around her back.

She knew it was Carlisle who held her here at the bottom of the lake.

Esme's eyes opened apprehensively to take in the murky surroundings. Long, delicate weeds swayed around her like a fence of dull green flames. Tiny shimmering fish swerved away from her, hiding shyly behind the weeds. Oddly shaped rocks were scattered all across the muddy floor as if someone had tried to mark a primitive path beneath the lake. She had never seen a place like this before, a world beneath the water. It was cold, quiet, and enchanting.

Beneath her chin she could feel the soft fibers of Carlisle's shirt where her head rested on his shoulder. She carefully lifted her head back to find him staring fixedly at her, an unreadable look in his glossy amber eyes. Unthinkingly, she reached up to touch the side of his face, dragging her finger over the curve of his jaw, across his cheek, and over the bridge of his nose.

Sparkling flecks of algae and debris floated around him, getting caught in his hair and clinging to his sweater as he stared down at her. His blond hair flowed around his head in an ethereal halo of grayish gold in the water, and the chain that carried his cross pendent was floating blissfully between them, still looped loosely around his neck.

His eyes went down to follow the end of the necklace, at first looking confused then mildly sheepish as he reached up to catch it and tuck it back underneath his shirt. His gaze went immediately back to hers, unquestioning and unwavering.

How long did he plan to keep her down here?

Had she actually tried to kill a human and not remembered it? Had she done something horrible and not even realized? Something subconscious that she had blocked from her memory within the minute it happened?

Everything that had led up to this strange sinking beneath the lake was now very fuzzy to her. She began to panic, thinking that something more was keeping Carlisle from taking her back to the surface.

She was perfectly fine now. Couldn't he see that?

His eyes were wide and still, filled with such tenderness that it seemed the water itself was warmed from the look he was giving her.

She tilted her head, hoping to display her confusion without words. Her fingers lightly clutched his sleeve and gave a small tug to show him that she was conscious and ready to resurface. His eyes drifted up to the light overhead before looking back at her, suddenly realizing that it was no longer necessary to stay down here any longer.

A tiny part of her regretted telling him that she was ready to go back up. Secretly, she didn't want to leave. It was so peaceful down here, so quiet and still and...intimate.

Her hands clung tightly to his shoulders as he scooped up her body and pushed off from the bottom of the lake. Within seconds he had broken the surface, but both of them knew better than to gasp for air. Esme still held her breath out of fear that the scent of humans might be lingering close by.

She watched as Carlisle's head rose above the surface and he shook the droplets of water from his hair vigorously. Everything he did was so careful and gentle that just the sight of him shaking his head so roughly was jarring to her. The rain had calmed but it did not stop entirely, making his effort to dry off fairly useless.

Esme's nerves flared for a moment as Carlisle took in a long breath of the surrounding air. A look of distinct relief crossed his face, and she had a feeling that meant it was safe to breathe.

Still, she waited for his permission.

"The air is clean now," he whispered, his lips sinking slightly beneath the surface as he treaded water with her in his arms. "You can breathe."

Closing her eyes, Esme took in a deep, blissful breath. But just before she could exhale, she instantly began coughing up the water that had somehow made it into her lungs. Carlisle's hand gripped her shoulder reassuringly as she emptied the unpleasantly cold water from her throat.

"You're alright now," he murmured to her, rubbing her back to discourage her from sobbing. "You're alright." His hand weaved gently through her hair, and fastening his palm against the back of her head, he pushed her slowly down to lay her face against his shoulder again.

Only a vague memory of the intoxicating scent from before lingered now, she was relieved to find. The air around her was mostly clear now, thanks to the rain.

Carlisle glanced quickly around and Esme's eyes followed, taking in the surrounding waters that seemed to stretch out equal distance in all directions. At the place where Carlisle's eyes stopped, however, she could make out Edward's figure standing by the banks of the lake under the willows. He stepped closer to the water with a nod as Carlisle began to make his way towards the shore.

Esme's arms went protectively to her chest as Carlisle placed her carefully down on the wet grass. He knelt on one knee beside her, and Edward did the same on the other, both of them sopping wet and looking more concerned than she'd ever seen them.

She wished they would tell her all that had happened.

Esme shuddered with humiliation as she coughed up another mouthful of lake water onto her lap. Carlisle and Edward exchanged worried glances.

She wondered if they were hiding something from her.

Before she could inquire, Edward thrust a dead blue bird towards her chin. "Drink," he ordered softly. But it was already gone by the time he said the word.

Her thirst had just barely dimmed.

"Any better?"

She shook her head honestly. Only one glance from Carlisle sent Edward back up into the tree to snatch another pair of birds from the branches.

"Try these," he offered, snapping the tiny necks of the swallows he had brought down and placing them in her lap. She drained them both in seconds, but she was too embarrassed to ask for more.

"I don't believe it," she heard Edward whisper to Carlisle. "She didn't run after him..."

With her energy heightened from the new blood in her system, Esme's eyes snapped up in attention. "What—What are you talking about?"

Carlisle's eyes were proud as he leaned closer to her, holding her shoulder. "You did it, Esme," he said plainly. "You resisted."

She could scarcely believe her ears. "I didn't kill anyone," she marveled, repeating it beneath her breath in wonder. "I didn't kill anyone this time..."

It was too good to be true. Could they both be lying to her to spare her another meltdown?

Edward shook his head vehemently when he heard her thoughts. "You didn't harm anyone, Esme. It's true." His eyes were triumphant yet still perplexed, as if he, too, were amazed by her success.

Esme's eyes shot rapidly from Edward back to Carlisle. "You saved me," she stated, her voice still weak and watery.

"No, Esme," Carlisle countered gently. "You never once tried to go after the blood. You ran away. _You _came to _me._" He said his words slowly, letting them sink in as a smile of deepest wonder and pleasant disbelief spread across his lips. "You saved yourself."

******-}0{-**

For weeks after her second encounter with a passing human, Esme continually relived the moment Carlisle spoke those incredible words. She was not used to being her own hero, but now that she knew she had the power to resist on her own, she was growing more and more eager to make use of it out in the world.

Out of the goodness of his heart, Carlisle helped her to contain her newfound enthusiasm by assuring her that very soon they would be able to venture out towards town and see how close she could come while still keeping control of her bloodlust. The scent of one human alone was challenging enough, let alone the scent of a handful of humans at a time.

The constant rain outside was helpful in blocking out much of the growing scents from the nearby town. With the fragrance of blood muted down, Esme was able to be escorted into the forest. Every day Carlisle took her further and further south, nearing the populated town. Whenever she felt the scent was growing too strong, she asked him to take her back. But each day she made progress, and Carlisle was able to bring her a little closer...until finally one day they reached the end of the Chartercrest property.

For the first time ever since her transformation, Esme got to see more houses, more signs of life. Although she was only allowed to watch them from a distance, she could even see the silhouettes of tiny humans moving around in those houses, living their lives, oblivious to her prying eyes.

"You're so close, Esme," Carlisle whispered to her as they watched the town silently from the forest edge. "Look how close you are."

She smiled softly to herself, her heart swelling with pride at how far she had come.

Carlisle placed his hands on her shoulders as he walked up behind her. "One day soon you'll be able to join them again, just as I have."

She reached up over her shoulder to place her hand on his. "I can't believe it's finally happening." Her voice was weak with wonder.

She could hear him smiling when he spoke. "All it took was a little courage, knowing you _could _do something you thought was impossible."

"I guess I always knew deep down that it had to be possible," she admitted softly. "At least, I hoped it would be."

"Even the smallest hope can breed the strongest faith."

She closed her eyes at his comforting, inspirational words. Now she knew she not only had faith in Carlisle, but she had faith in herself. And that was something that could not be taken away.

After they had been exposed to the scent of humans, Carlisle always offered to take Esme hunting. She always accepted his offers, but she noticed with some curiosity that he never took advantage of the time for himself. There was plenty of hardy wildlife in the forests during the spring season, but Carlisle was not partaking in the feast at all.

Instead he watched her while she scampered about, killing everything she could get her hands on. While she had no aversion to his attentions, it was rather odd to her that he had taken on the role of an unnecessary chaperone whenever she hunted. He never once killed something for himself, never even took so much as a sip of whatever she was drinking from.

It was indeed very curious. But Esme never questioned it.

A strange pattern had emerged on Sunday mornings in the early spring. Moments after the sun had risen, Carlisle would conjure some mysterious excuse for being needed at the hospital, and he would leave Edward to tend to Esme at the house. The general amount of time taken before his return would prolong itself as the weeks progressed.

As if that were not strange enough, Carlisle's inclination to hunt was still steadily diminishing. Esme knew he had not been hunting while in her presence, but soon she began to wonder if he had been consuming blood _at all_. The gold of his eyes had deepened slowly but surely, until they were twin droplets of smoky bronze beneath his still healthy golden brows.

While the rain had its advantages, it did not favor well for Esme when she wanted to spend more time with Carlisle. With every day cloudier than the next, the chances lessened that Carlisle might have an excuse to stay home from his shift.

In a series of dismally stormy days, there came only one lucky morning where the sun was shining, dimly but dangerously for just a few hours before Carlisle had planned to leave. Esme made sure to catch a few moments with him while he paced anxiously before the windows, waiting for the clouds to roll in.

"You haven't had much time to hunt lately, have you?" she asked pityingly, hoping to lead him into some kind of explanation.

He paused and took a small, uncertain breath through his parted lips as he glanced back at her. "No."

"Well, maybe when you come back from the hospital later we can..." she fumbled foolishly through the offer, as she had feared she would. He was staring at her, and she was staring at her hands, playing cat's cradle with her own fingers as she waited for him to speak before she had to finish. Damn his politeness, for he would not say one blasted word until she completed a sentence. He thought he was interrupting.

Didn't he realize when a woman lingered in silence for more than two seconds it meant a man's interruption was desperately needed?

She looked up at him pleadingly from the doorway, surprised to see that his face was all but _elated. _One would think she had just offered to resurrect his own mother from the grave – he looked so indecently _happy. _

But just as quickly as it had appeared, that happiness melted away – first from his eyes, then from his lips, erasing the sparkles and dimples as it swept down his face.

"Oh, I..." He cast his gaze down, in an ironic struggle with his own wording as she waited for him to complete the thought. "I don't know if I..."

He was refusing her.

And it was a little like being punched in the stomach with an iron fist. Only it hurt more.

"It's all right." She felt herself saying the words, but they were nothing more than numb fuzz on the tip of her tongue. "You don't have the time. I understand."

"It's not that." He winced, weaving a frustrated set of fingers through his thick blond hair.

She leaned forward slightly and raised her eyebrows, all manner of clever body language encouraging him to continue explaining, but he seemed dumbstruck by the empty air, his eyes whirling about the room like a child on Christmas Eve who had just heard the clip-clop of reindeer hooves on the rooftop.

"Do you hear that?"

Like the scatter-minded fool she was, Esme almost strained to listen for deer on the roof.

But there _were_ very curious sounds in the room – much softer than hooves and much further below the ceiling.

"Yes. A kind of...crackling sound," she confirmed, stepping closer to him as they looked about the room for the source of the noise.

At nearly the same exact moment, they both turned to face the same window as the sound suddenly grew sharper. With a light grunt of exertion, Carlisle thrust open the sealed window to reveal the remains of a bird's nest, tucked into the empty flower box. In the center of the carefully arranged twigs and weeds was a single sky blue robin's egg, and the egg was...shivering.

"Oh!" Esme uttered a squeak of delight, leaning further out the window to get a closer look.

"It's going to hatch," Carlisle whispered, his voice disconcertingly youthful with sheer wonder.

Sensing the rare opportunity to behave like a little girl again, Esme promptly hoisted herself onto the window sill so that her feet hung over the edge.

"Wh—"

It was plain that Carlisle had intended to discourage her from climbing up, but she had been slightly too quick for his catch. It was entirely accidental that his arm somehow wound itself snugly about her waist anyway.

She hadn't planned for that to happen, but she could not say it didn't please her.

Why had she climbed onto the window sill again?

Oh, the baby bird was hatching. Of course.

"Leave it alone." Edward's low but commanding voice was suddenly on Esme's other side. As Carlisle reached out with one innocent finger to prod the egg, Edward promptly smacked his hand away. "Come on, now! Just because you're a doctor doesn't mean you can fool around with it."

"I was just going to—"

"Let nature take its own bloody course for once, Carlisle."

"I _was_ the one who heard it in the first place."

"I can't see!"

"Oh, will you two be quiet?"

It seemed Esme was the only one capable of putting their petty arguments to rest. This had turned into much more of an ordeal than it perhaps should have been. But something about the hatchling's delicate struggle was so miraculous, even more so in the eyes of a vampire. All Esme could think was how often a day they spent _terrifying_ animals. To have one moment where the animal was free from the harm that they were cursed to impose was fairly exhilarating.

It was all twice as thrilling to Esme, being so intimate a witness to such a rare event. And perhaps having Carlisle's arm still locked around her waist didn't detract too much from that thrill. Still, they must have looked rather ridiculous, squished uncomfortably within the window frame, hovering over that single bird's egg, waiting with bated breath for the moment it would peek out of its shell.

Esme felt Edward's hand nudge her shoulder to the side as he lifted half his body to sit on the sill beside her.

"I don't think it likes us," he hissed.

"Hush."

Esme gripped his arm as the flimsy shell of the egg finally split, and a tiny head with an even tinier beak began pinching its way out into the world. Esme marveled, both at the spectacular sight and at the sound of Edward's swift gasp from behind her.

The doctor's hand tightened briefly around her waist as the bird's head broke free, its first soft chirps one of the most touching sounds she'd ever heard. Carlisle's gently bewildered laughter at the sight spurred a deep pang in Esme's heart. It was with great reluctance that she allowed him to unwind his arm from her waist, freeing his hand for further exploration. His tender fingers reached out to aid the newly hatched bird, carefully picking away small chips of the shell that stuck to its soggy feathers.

As could not be helped, Esme's gaze flitted back and forth between the baby bird and her blond beloved. The pure joy and hopeless curiosity in his smile, the utter enchantment swimming in his coffee-colored eyes, each little line that creased his cheeks and forehead as he chuckled was so inspiring yet so humiliatingly baffling to her, she was barely able to take it all in at once.

Inside she could feel her heart quivering at the sight, her lungs wilting and blooming with greater strength as she listened to the contented strain of his sweet masculine laughter mingling with that of his son's.

"Oh, my goodness," she murmured beneath her breath.

Carlisle's eyes raised to meet hers in jubilant confirmation, unaware that her exclamation was not intended for the smaller of miracles as he'd thought.

As if to break her from the embarrassing spell, Edward gently pushed Esme aside to gain closer access to the hatchling. "I want to touch it."

Esme turned her eyes skeptically to him. At least he hadn't been lying when he said he was bored beyond repair.

Apparently they were all desperate for some enchanting event – so desperate that the first bird of the season to hatch on their window constituted a family gathering.

Esme couldn't help but laugh with giddiness at it all.

It took both her and Edward a great amount of effort to get Carlisle to leave in time for his shift once the clouds rolled in. He was not happy about having to leave before he could see the bird use its wings for the first time, but Esme promised to tell him all about it once he returned.

A private smile crossed her lips as she watched him give the bird's tiny head one last prod of encouragement before he backed reluctantly away from the window. The bird's eyes blinked up longingly as if it was also sad to see him go. Esme empathized.

The one good thing that came from Carlisle leaving in the mornings was the ritual exchange of embraces that went on between them just before he left. Esme never felt they were more a family than they were during this brief part of the day.

Being part of a family was such a brilliant blessing. Every day the concept only fascinated her more. It was only the three of them, and however perfect that number was for a desperate heart, some part of Esme longed for _more. _More hearts to tend to, more personalities to appreciate, more beings to love and share a home with.

Later on that very same day, Edward came and asked her why she wanted these things, and she tried to explain to him her mysterious need.

"I just want to _love,_" she told him simply. "Just think of how many people are out there in the world, how many of them don't have what we have. How many of them don't have anyone to love them."

Being the gentleman that he was, Edward took pity on Esme's slightly melancholy thoughts and decided to give her a new project for a healthy dose of distraction.

"You can love lots of things, Esme. Not just people," he said thoughtfully. "In fact, I have something I think could use your love."

He took her arm and lead her out of the house.

Not far along the edge of the property, nestled behind a barricade of foliage, there was an abandoned conservatory which had long ago belonged to the estate's previous owner. Ironically, the overgrowth of plants within the structure had allowed it to retain some element of life despite having suffered through ages of neglect. Even though its rounded glass walls were smeary and cracked, and its entrance was all but impossible to find, Esme could imagine how grand it had once looked, and how grand she could make it look again.

Edward showed her the many areas that needed fixing, making suggestions that she politely considered taking into account. He apologized for the hovering aroma of reptilian blood, but it had not bothered her nearly as much as it would have a few months prior.

She was doing impressively well with taming the newborn urges. Even Edward told her so. A compliment from Edward was the sun in an otherwise stormy day. Lately the boy's praise and encouragement was not given out as liberally as Carlisle's, and so it often meant an even greater deal to her.

Sundays were something to look forward to now, and when Carlisle departed the house in the morning, Edward would take Esme to the abandoned conservatory where she would sketch out her renovation plans meticulously, and he would humor her every whim.

Presently, however, they had jumped slightly ahead of themselves. One morning in early April saw them bickering over what kinds of flowers should be growing in the greenhouse when it was finished.

Edward had vehemently turned down Esme's suggestion of lilac bushes, saying they were far too clichéd for a place that was so out-of-the-ordinary.

"If only the Lotus flower was native to our sad little region," he lamented with a strange, devious sort of smile as he watched her organize a group of chipped clay pots.

"Lotus flower?"

He smiled amiably. "Yes, you know of it?"

"Of course I do. It's Asian isn't it?"

He only chuckled suspiciously.

"Why do I get the feeling there's a story behind this?" She knew he wanted her to ask, and as long as he was humoring her, she would humor him.

"You mean to say that our dear doctor _hasn't_ told you the Lotus flower story?" Edward pretended to be shocked.

Esme's hand froze over the broken pottery, victim as always to the customary little jolt that caught her lungs at an unexpected mention of Carlisle.

"Why is that so outrageous?" she asked casually as she moved over to the wooden workbench.

"Because it's his absolute favorite story to tell. If Carlisle hasn't told you the Lotus flower story, you aren't _really _his friend," Edward pointed out smugly.

"Oh, how tragic." She pouted, playing along if only to mask her genuine disappointment. "You must tell me now, or I will never sleep at night."

He heaved a sigh of exasperation as if telling her were a chore. "Well, when Carlisle was still in Europe, one of the vampires he met offered to show him his home in India. If you can believe it, Carlisle was remotely adventurous back then, and he decided to accompany his friend. During his time there, they visited a harem where the Hindu women decided to 'adorn' him with Lotus blossoms." He raised one dark eyebrow in a purposefully cryptic expression.

Esme bristled at this bit of information, feeling something like irrational jealousy.

"_Why?_"

"They thought he was an avatar of the god Vishnu," he explained with a soft snicker of amusement.

As much as Esme wanted to believe that to be shocking, it really wasn't. She imagined Carlisle could have passed as a god in many cultures, even in the present day.

"Oh, good heavens," she sighed, attempting to busy herself with sharpening drawing pencils on the worktable. But more than part of what Edward had said bothered her beyond reason, and she simply could not ignore it any longer.

The question came out in an angry burst as she slammed down her small stack of sketchbooks on the table. "Did Carlisle really visit a _harem_?"

Edward laughed darkly, which only unsettled her more. "I've seen it firsthand through his head. I assure you, he did. His counterpart favored young women to feed upon, and so he collected his victims there. It was quite an...interesting place," he added with a smirk, and she shuddered. Clearly he just enjoyed torturing her. "But if it makes you feel any better, I suspect Carlisle was only forced into going."

"Hmph." Esme turned her head down as she hastily cleared the workbench, now quite aware why Carlisle had decided _not _to share the Lotus flower story with her.

"I thought it would have been rather hilarious to tease him about it by filling this place with Lotus flowers, you see," Edward sighed with mock-sadness, absently crushing some dead leaves between his fingertips.

"Well, it's quite a pity that we can't acquire any Lotus seeds in our 'sad little region' then, isn't it?" She gave him a gentle glare of disapproval.

He continued enthusiastically, as if he had not heard her. "We should have at least one Venus Flytrap, though. It's the closest to a vampire any plant has a hope in getting," he joked, earning a grudging fit of giggles from her.

Edward was far too good at making her laugh. Esme was aware that she amused him as well, for different reasons rather than being outright witty.

They worked well together now, as odd a pair as they had been at the beginning. It was awfully strange thinking back on how it had been _before_ they had gotten to know each other. She could not do without the boy, now.

"I'm flattered you think so highly of me."

She bit her lip and gave him a shy grin. "Ah, Edward. Always so intrusive."

"I _am_ terribly impolite, aren't I?" he chuckled, sweeping a web of thready green vines away from his head as he walked towards her, "And presumptuous... Yet something of a genius, I think."

She giggled and reached up to help him swipe away the bothersome foliage, fondly accusing him of being too tall.

He smirked and seated himself casually on the wooden tabletop beside her finished sketches.

"What are all of these flowers for?" he asked as he thumbed through a series of partly finished sketches.

She snatched them protectively out of his hands and held them against her chest. "That was just a study I did – the stages of a lily in bloom," she explained quietly.

He stared at her for a few seconds, looking dangerously close to laughter. She checked her thoughts, but finding nothing to induce such humor, she wrinkled her nose at him in displeasure.

"What now?"

"Nothing," he whispered with a smile and no shake of his head – both of which were signs that it was certainly _not _nothing.

She placed her hands on her hips, accidentally crinkling the papers she still held as she did so.

"You think I waste my time with these kinds of things, don't you?"

His mouth shied away from its grin. "Your artwork could never be a waste of time, Esme. I'm not just saying that to please you," he added sincerely, "I'm happy that you've found a way to occupy your time at all. I can't imagine what I would do without my music, and I know that you feel the same way about your art."

She bit her lip and placed the sketches carefully down on the table beside him, smiling hesitantly. "Then what, pray tell, is so amusing?"

His grin returned full force as he leaned back against the green glass. "I don't know. Everything."

It usually bothered her when Edward refused to be specific, but she let it slide this time. He had been immensely cooperative with her for the past few weeks, and more than willing to help while she dragged him around to gather resources for her little projects. She could leave him off the hook for a while so long as he was behaving, and he could have his fun, too.

Esme hummed absently, picking up her new tin of pencils from under the table and setting everything up just the way she liked it before she started her final sketches.

"I can't wait to see this place once you've finished with it," Edward said softly, gazing through her thoughts as she began sketching the skeleton of the interior window frames.

"Don't go getting your hopes up now," she warned lightheartedly, prodding his knee with the end of her pencil. "It's not as if we'll have the entire Grand Menagerie in here." He snorted as she continued, "And it may be the end of summer before I can make any real changes."

His clear yellow eyes sparkled like pineapple candy. "Ah yes, summer. That which celebrates hibernation for our poor doctor."

"Hibernation?" she repeated questioningly, her pencil tracing unsteadily through the last lines.

"I mean that he will be taking fewer house calls, working only at night, and likely cooped up inside the house for the entire day," Edward explained as he swatted absently at a small butterfly that had become attracted to his scent. "And you know how _long_ the days are during the summer."

Suddenly Esme found herself in dire need of a protractor.

"Well, I'm sure he'll find something by which to occupy himself," she managed to say dismissively despite her tremulous voice.

"I have no doubts that _he_ will. The question is, will _you_?"

She sent a weak glare at Edward where he leaned his head almost sleepily against the window.

"Why have you not yet told him, Esme?" His voice was soft and agonized, almost heartbroken.

A warm chill danced up her spine, and she hissed in defense.

"You _promised _not to say anything—"

"I haven't said one word," he countered calmly, knowing what her next warning would have been.

She breathed a silent sigh of relief and feigned frustration with her sketches. A long while passed where she assumed Edward was listening intently to the flurry of confused thoughts in her head.

He was not going to pressure her into speaking, but secretly (or perhaps _not _so secretly) she wanted him to keep talking about it. She wanted him to never stop speaking about it until she was forced to sing out her feelings, because that was the only way she would ever let Carlisle know.

"I can't tell him," she whispered under her breath, ducking her head away from Edward even though he had no advantage to reading her facial expressions. "He's so..."

About a thousand inappropriately flattering adjectives blurred through her mind, but Edward had picked out the only one he wanted to hear.

"Intimidating?" He practically choked on his own venom. "Is that seriously what you were going to say? _Intimidating?_" He laughed in disbelief, and she did not even need to turn around to know the exact look on his face. "We _are _still talking about _Carlisle Cullen_, aren't we?"

She blanched at the name and scribbled furiously on an empty page in her book.

"Esme, Carlisle is quite possibly the least intimidating person on the face of the planet." His tone had softened, but she could still hear the amused smile in his voice.

She ignored him, too embarrassed to turn around.

By the time Edward decided it was safe to speak again, all amusement was cast aside.

"You should trust me on this."

She closed her book, set down the blunt pencil, and looked up at him. His face was serious, almost studious, and there was a mysterious urgency in his eyes that made her nerves tingle with misplaced hope.

She was enlightened to something then, something she had not before considered.

Her mouth dropped open the slightest bit before she whispered desperately, "You've read his thoughts. Tell me you've read his thoughts and that he thinks well of me. _Tell me_!"

"Of course he thinks well of you." Edward's face was careful now. He was hiding something.

_Edward, please. You know what I need to know. Tell me._

He stared at her for a long moment as though considering it, and in that moment Esme swore she could feel her own heart beating. But then he ever so slowly shook his head, with a meaningful look into her eyes. "That is not what I am here for, Esme."

She tore her eyes away as her heart sunk into the impairing syrup of sorrow.

_Then I shall be in the dark forever._

Edward heaved a forceful sigh and told her she was being "awfully melodramatic." With an effortless hop off the worktable, he skidded out of her view, reminding her that she was due to start painting the windows of the house today.

She wanted to remind him that she never needed reminding, but he was already long gone.

There was a suspicious exchange of low male voices up at the house, and as always she strained to hear, but to no avail. Carlisle and Edward were experts at keeping their conversations private, much to her dismay. It was none of her business anyway.

With a sigh, Esme tucked her sketchbooks beneath one arm and started her way back up to the house at a slow pace to give them fair warning before walking in on them. She turned back to look at the conservatory for a good minute, making reminders to herself as to which windows would need replaced and which could settle for fixing. As soon as the voices fell silent, she hurried back to the house and threw open the back door, heaping her pile of books on the nearest chair before she waltzed up the stairs to change her stockings.

As she rummaged through her bureau, she could hear Edward already fussing over the white paint out in the front yard. She smiled to herself as she knotted her fine waves of hair up off her shoulders and tucked the stubborn wispy strands behind her ears. She slipped through the hallway, carefully avoiding bumping into Carlisle before she made it safely out the front door where Edward was waiting with a full can of white paint. He looked adorably clueless, staring up at the old black framed windows.

"You're going to paint _all _of the windows white?"

She made a face. "Well, it would look horrendous if we left half of them black, wouldn't you say?"

Edward cocked his head and blinked, taking in the whole façade of the house. "I sort of like them black."

Esme pursed her lips as she accepted the paint can from his limp hand. "The entire house will brighten up if just the windows are painted white. You'll see."

"I'm sure it will."

Her head immediately whipped around at the sound of Carlisle's voice, finding him just beside his son in the yard not far behind her. Edward met her eyes with a lazy, knowing smirk as Carlisle's smile broadened innocently, utterly unaware of the boy's expression.

They really were something to behold, standing beside each other. They were exactly the same height, only Edward's unruly hair made him an inch or so taller. But their handsomeness seemed to magnify off of each other when they were placed just so, together, and it almost made them each look twice as striking.

She might have lost her balance if she'd still been but a human woman.

Reading the nature of her thoughts, Edward pinched the bridge of his nose and bowed his head down with a rich grin, while Carlisle continued to smile obliviously up at her.

With a tentative smile back at them, Esme shifted her stance and raised the wet paintbrush to the dry frame.

The bristles brushed.

Someone sighed.

A bird chirped.

Awkwardly, Esme veered her head around. Just as she'd worried, Carlisle was intensely watching her, and Edward was intensely watching Carlisle.

"Will you not watch me the entire time? It makes me uncomfortable." She'd directed the request to both of them, but only Carlisle seemed eager to respond favorably.

His eyes were faintly apologetic as he pushed his fingers through his blond hair and rested easily against the shallow wall that divided the veranda from the grass. "I'll just look at this tree then, shall I?" he said teasingly as he turned to face the opposite direction.

Edward snorted softly, but Esme returned to her work before she could catch his eye.

"I'm sorry, it's just that being watched for too long makes me rather nervous," she explained as she bent to dip her brush into the can of paint. Her eyes stole a glance at the back of his blond head where he leaned both elbows against the concrete railing. She watched as he shook his head, still staring out at the yard.

"I understand," he said with a tone that brought with it hints of gentle laughter.

In her peripheral, she saw Edward toss something over his shoulder and run back to retrieve it hastily. Thinking it better not to become distracted by his antics, she sighed and lifted her paintbrush.

"So how _do_ you plan to reach the second story windows, Esme?" Edward asked with exaggerated curiosity.

A smirk quirked her lips as she sent back jokingly, "I'll stand on your shoulders, of course."

As could not be helped, her heart sprouted wings at the sound of Carlisle's contained chuckling.

"I'd need to grow quite a few more inches for that to work," Edward quipped from across the yard.

She raised her eyebrows and strained her neck to smile vivaciously at him. "Then you'd better start improving your diet."

Carlisle laughed quite jovially at her remark, and she had to allow herself just a few seconds to watch. Even from behind, laughter did beautiful things to him.

Edward glared good-naturedly up at her. "I'll see to that," he promised wittily. "In fact, I think I'll take a trip to the forest right now."

Her face grew rigid as she watched him retreat at a taunting pace. She swore he might have saluted her cheekily before he ran off into the trees. Even Carlisle looked utterly confused as he watched his son disappear suddenly from sight.

Esme frowned, returning to her painting with a slightly shakier hand. Her senses were alight with the tickling aroma of sweet citrus and incense and vanilla – the familiar tartness of Carlisle's scent wrapping itself warmly around her.

He breathed in deeply, and for a brief moment she expected him to say something. Anticipating inevitable interaction, she twisted at the waist to peer over her shoulder at him. Gripping her paintbrush a bit too tightly to try and steady herself, it snapped in half and dropped in two pieces to the ground. She gasped as the white paint that had looked so perfect on the window frame haphazardly splattered all over her fresh stockings.

Resisting the childish urge to stomp her foot, she glanced at Carlisle who still appeared lost in his own thoughts, facing in the opposite direction. Thinking she might be fast enough to snatch the stockings off in time before he looked around, she hastily plucked off both shoes and sat herself on the ledge of the window. She lifted her skirt with one hand and reached down to quickly peel the thin fabric of her stocking off one leg.

Carlisle chose possibly the worst time to let curiosity coax his head around. With her leg raised at an embarrassingly comical angle and one hand furiously tugging at the toe of her stocking, Esme imagined she must have been quite a sight. It was no surprise that his first instinct was to shield his eyes with one hand. She cringed, thinking of the gaping view he'd surely had of everything beneath her skirt.

"Esme! Oh, dear—what on earth?" he choked on the words as he turned away in a mild panic.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" she squeaked in mortification as she managed to struggle free. "I got paint on my stockings!"

As soon as her legs were bare, she squished the offensive bundle of her stockings between her hands and tossed them aside, hoping to somehow pretend it never happened. She bit her lip in humiliation while all of her face felt on fire, and then she noticed his laughter.

Her mouth fell open in pleasant shock. He wasn't offended. He was...amused.

Hesitant to laugh along with him at first for fear that he might have been mocking her, she covered her lips with her hand until he cautiously turned to face her, and they both burst into helpless laughter.

Before she even realized she was moving towards him, she had seated herself beside him on the steps leading up to the veranda, still giggling uncontrollably and offering half-sincere apologies between breaths. "That is possibly the most ridiculous thing I've ever done," she whimpered into her hands.

He grinned, shaking his head as he regained his breath. "I was just very...surprised. That's all."

Self-consciously she tucked her skirt safely over her knees as she sat, and his eyes flickered warily at the sight.

"Esme, I promise you I won't ever look underneath your skirt again."

While laughter was a natural reaction to hearing Carlisle make such an outrageous comment, she had to think the words twice-over before understanding why they made her feel so terribly flush.

She didn't want him to make that promise.

Each charmed giggle caught awkwardly in her throat as she stared at his sparkling eyes, and it was almost painful how many unvoiced implications were fluttering through the air between them.

By the time her laughter had melted away completely, she was still staring, and his gaze dropped almost wonderingly to her bare legs.

In a breath-stealing instant, she watched as he reached out with one hand, and his fingers gently collided with the skin of her calf, exactly where they had once touched ten years ago.

And exactly as they had ten years ago, his fingertips sent a charge of chilling warmth all through her body from that one tiny space they touched.

Her eyes widened as they looked up to his face, purely stunned. And to stun her even further, he asked her in a hushed voice, "Do you know what's slightly incredible?"

If his remark had been implying the texture of her skin, she may have needed a second bite to the throat.

She tilted her head with coy, questioning eyes.

"If it weren't for _this _leg...you wouldn't be here right now."

His eyes blinked once then rose to strike hers with their untiringly affectionate glow. Smiling fondly down at her, he let his fingers brush gently away as she nodded absently in breathless agreement. "That _is_ slightly incredible."

* * *

**A/N: **

**So are we relieved that everything turned out okay for Esme? She's getting there, one step at a time!**

**You can read this chapter from Carlisle's POV in Behind Stained Glass, Chapter 31: A Different Kind of Touch.**


	53. Laundry and Sunshine

**Chapter 53:**

**Laundry and Sunshine**

* * *

"Esme, I've been meaning to tell you something. Do you have a moment?" Carlisle asked as he came down the stairs one afternoon, carrying an armful of boxes. In the midst of rather vigorous spring cleaning, it seemed he spent more time with something in his arms than without.

"I think the question is do _you_ have a moment?" Esme retorted with a gentle giggle as he struggled to place the load of medicine cases down on the table.

He laughed breathlessly as he donned his coat and stopped by the door to face her fully. Then she felt a little nervous. She wasn't expecting any particularly moving news, but the way he looked made her feel the need to prepare herself for something bigger than she'd anticipated.

"At the end of February, I sent a letter to my dear friend Eleazar and his wife Carmen – the Denali Coven from Alaska?"

"Oh, yes, of course," Esme recalled brightly.

"Well, I offered for them to come visit us in the spring, and just this week I've received a letter from Carmen saying they've agreed to come stay for a little while."

At this, there was an abrupt but forceful pound of unharmonious notes from the music room. In the blink of an eye, Edward was standing before Carlisle, comically close to his face.

"Tell me you didn't invite that _demon woman_ to tag along with them."

Carlisle, surprisingly, did not look shocked by his son's intrusion. He was clearly exasperated, but beneath it all he looked a bit amused. "None of the others are coming," he calmly clarified. "Just Eleazar and Carmen."

Edward looked as though the end of the world had just been reversed at his plea. "Thank _God!_" He slumped back against the wall with a hand on his forehead, smiling in relief.

Esme laughed in confusion.

"Edward isn't particularly fond of one of the Denali sisters," Carlisle explained.

From the look on Edward's face, Esme surmised that this was a flagrant understatement.

"She tried to rape me once," Edward mentioned casually.

Carlisle's eyes shot daggers at his son's face.

"It's true!"

Carlisle weaved a stressful hand through his hair, his gaze turned pleadingly toward heaven. "Lord... You mustn't say things like that, Edward."

The doctor's gaze shifted pointedly toward the only woman in the room, and Edward suddenly stiffened in understanding.

Ironic, Esme thought, that she had been the last to realize the offense such a statement harbored in her presence. Naturally, she attempted to laugh it away as a meaningless slip of the tongue. It hadn't bothered her... It _didn't _bother her.

Why should it?

Clearly poor Edward deserved more sympathy than she did.

Carlisle never looked fully convinced before he eventually gave up and left for his shift.

"I'll see you two when I get back, then?" he sighed before the door cracked shut behind him.

"He really needs to lighten up," Edward muttered.

Though part of Esme was flattered by Carlisle's constant sensitivity towards her, she couldn't help but agree.

"So who is this 'demon woman' you mentioned?"

"Ugh. _Tanya_," Edward said, rolling his eyes. "Just one day with her and her _gag-worthy _thoughts made me reconsider the idea of assisted suicide." His eyes widened slightly with awareness as he turned to her. "Again, I hope I'm not offending you..."

"No, Edward. You're not offending me."

"I am a little."

She shook her head with a casual smile that felt oddly like a wince.

His face became rigid with seriousness. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable, ever," he emphasized. "I know I'm sometimes a bit...flippant about things like this. But I never mean to be. Especially not around you."

"I know that, darling."

A charmingly crooked grin crossed his lips. "You're calling me 'darling' for good, now?"

"Is that all right?"

He pursed his lips and touched his chin, pretending to consider it. "Sure." He shrugged.

She smiled.

"But Carlisle might start to feel left out after a while," he warned.

Her heart clenched uncomfortably. Though the thought of using any such term of endearment with Carlisle filled her with unacceptable delight, she couldn't imagine any way to do it without it sounding wholly inappropriate. Edward was practically her _son. _

So what was Carlisle?

They still hadn't figured that out yet.

She sighed and turned away. "I'll use it when he's not around then," she vowed quietly.

But Esme broke her vow.

Later that evening when Carlisle returned, she thought of it secretly when he was in the very same room. After every audible acknowledgment, she addressed him mentally with _"dear" _and _"darling."_

It was an addicting sort of game she'd come up with. Edward had rolled his eyes at her so many times she worried he would lose them by the end of the day.

But this worry did not last long.

After so long being cooped up in the house, Edward was finally given the chance to spend his evenings in the town boys' academy. It was his longest running dream, and it was finally coming true. Esme felt that Edward's acceptance into the school was just as much an accomplishment on her part. Because she was at last comfortable in her control enough to be on her own, Edward was finally able to leave the house while Carlisle worked.

In Edward's absence, Carlisle welcomed Esme to spend their first free night with him in his study, and she accepted gladly. It had felt like too long since they had the house to themselves, without the pressure of Edward's presence in the neighboring room.

This time Esme was not nervous knowing that they were alone. When she thought about it, all those rooms in this spacious old mansion and only two people inside, it only seemed more appealing to her. She was thrilled by it.

Carlisle seemed to act less like a doctor and more like an artist when he was only in her presence. It was fascinating, really. Everything about him, even the way he moved and spoke was different, less restrained.

He seemed to be hiding less and less of himself these days. This included his skin.

His collar was always unbuttoned when she was his only company. She could see the glint of his golden cross against his chest, and the smooth space of skin that tempted her beneath.

Now his sleeves were often rolled up as well, thanks to the warming weather. That night he was wearing a shirt made of sinfully thin beige cotton that hugged his biceps a bit too tightly. She did not mind that the fit was slightly snug, and apparently neither did he.

He had not bothered to comb his hair that evening, and so it swept artfully across his forehead and fell along the back of his neck in dreamily disheveled blond waves. His hair looked longer when it was not combed, more voluminous and more likely to make her fingers ache to run through the strands.

With his charmingly unkempt appearance, he went very well with the cluttered scene that was his study.

Spring cleaning had made a mess of the room, but Esme thought it looked even better that way. Like Carlisle himself, the room had the potential to look neat and tidy and perfectly organized, but once all of his belongings were brought out of hiding, the place was even more disastrously fascinating to her.

"It looks as though you've been busy," Esme commented with a wry smirk, her gaze cascading up the walls of half-emptied bookshelves.

Carlisle sheepishly nodded at the stacks of books and papers that he had left to gather by the fireplace. "I make a point to reorganize my study every year." He looked around self-consciously, beating his hand against the side of his hip as he chuckled in sudden amusement. "I think from the mess around here it may be rather obvious that I skipped the previous year."

She laughed in agreement. "So you've left yourself with twice as much work to be done this year," she said with a click of her tongue.

Even his dimples looked embarrassed as he sent her a bashful smile. "So it would seem," he sighed.

With a look of consideration, Esme walked over to the stacks of books that he had laid out on the floor and across the furniture. She placed a precarious finger on her lower lip in thought before blurting, "Then it would take twice as many hands to help get the job done."

She smiled at him, unfolding her folded hands in a sweet suggestion to assist him.

Carlisle looked pleasantly surprised by her offer, not knowing what to say at first.

"That would be most appreciated." His soft words were followed by an even softer wince, but Esme did not understand why.

"It's no trouble. You know I love redecorating," she assured him with an easy grin as she picked up an old book to dust it off.

Carlisle's eyes burst open comically as he watched her swipe the book on her clean sleeve. Immediately he came forward and gently pulled the dusty old book from her hand.

"Oh, now I will not have you ruining your good clothes—"

"I don't mind, Carlisle, really," she insisted. "We can always get my clothes washed..." But she was silenced by the suspiciously guilty look on his face.

"I'm afraid less of our clothing can be taken out for cleaning during the spring and summer, Esme. We cannot always find a day cloudy enough to simply take the laundry back and forth from town," he murmured reluctantly, looking most concerned for her reaction.

Determined to make him see that this did not affect her in the slightest, Esme boldly offered to manage the laundry work herself from that point on.

"Then _I'll_ wash all of our clothing."

Carlisle's lips fell open. "Esme, I wouldn't want you to—"

"Please, I insist. I can afford to get more productive work done around here. I am a member of this house, after all. I am perfectly capable and I should pay my stay."

His expression flickered awkwardly for a moment before he composed himself to murmur quietly, "Just as well, I hope you know that your stay alone is pay enough."

She grinned appreciatively. "I know."

From that point on, Esme enjoyed her new responsibility.

She could not deny how deliciously domestic the chore was, how close she had come to performing the very housework that a wife traditionally carried out for her husband. Now that she was handling his clothing every other day for the wash, her relationship seemed to have taken a notch up in intimacy.

It was perhaps not so plain to him, but to her it certainly was.

She used a sizable wicker basket to collect the laundry from every wardrobe in the house. She became obsessed with seeing the things Carlisle placed inside of it.

In it was everything she had ever seen him wear and some things she had never seen on him. Plaid and argyle and pinstripes, cotton and seersucker and wool, all in soft, cool colors. His slacks, his shirts, his sweaters, his socks, and everything he wore _beneath _his clothing was in that basket. It was her own personal treasure chest; each time she opened it she discovered something fascinating.

He folded everything so precisely, and she wondered if he did it to spare her the work of having to press the wrinkles out herself. Even something as simple as that made her heart flicker in adoration.

She smiled to herself whenever she sorted through the basket, separating Edward's shirts from Carlisle's. She could always tell whose they were by the faint lingering scent of candle smoke that clung to all of Carlisle's clothing.

But beneath the soft smokiness, the fine fabrics of his shirts all held a similar, subtle scent – a bit like apple cider and warm maple. She would bring the collar of his shirt to her nose and breathe in the sweet essence that lingered where it had brushed against his skin. His clothes smelled so wonderful when they came to be washed, she wondered why he was having her wash them in the first place. Usually the only times they washed their clothes were after hunting and when they got dirty from walking outside.

The clothes Carlisle sent for her to wash all seemed to be clean already.

But she washed them anyway because he obviously expected it.

Esme rather enjoyed doing the laundry. In fact, she hoped that she could continue doing it even throughout the cold seasons.

Carlisle seemed to think she secretly found it humiliating. Whenever one of them mentioned clothes that needed washing, his face wore the same slightly embarrassed expression as if it were a burden to her that she just could not bring herself to admit.

She tried to assure him that it was no burden, that she actually enjoyed it, but he still seemed doubtful. Or perhaps something about her touching and handling his clothes made _him _nervous. He did not strike her as the kind of man who was fussy about his clothing. Edward certainly had no qualms about that sort of thing. She assumed Carlisle did not either.

She had no way to explain his odd discrepancies when it came to the laundry, but she did not let it bother her.

Once when Carlisle came home early from his shift at the hospital, he found his way into the kitchen to watch her while she washed his clothes in the basin. There was something so wonderfully awkward about his eyes on her while her bare arms were buried in the soapy water. She churned and scrubbed as vigorously as she could without ruining the fabrics. Carlisle seemed oddly fascinated by the process.

She wondered vaguely if he had ever watched a woman do laundry before.

Probably not.

"Will you let me do the washing for a while?"

Esme was shocked to hear the sheer imploring nature of his voice as he looked over her shoulder.

"I told you, I don't mind it," she said with gentle force, smiling agreeably as she looked back at him. Her breath caught at how handsome he looked, his eyebrows furrowed in concern and his lips set in a full pout of disapproval.

His eyes flickered down in suspicion when the movement of her hands weakened in the water. She watched him take in a breath, and knowing he was about to speak, she became flustered and mindlessly blurted the first thing that came to her mind.

"If you want to, you can help by folding the clothes that I've already dried."

His eyes lit up as if she had just offered him a canteen of warm blood. She almost giggled.

"They're outside hanging on the clothesline," she said, dabbing her wet arms down with a towel before she led him through the kitchen door. "I'll show you."

Walking just outside onto the porch, she pointed to the place where she had hastily tied a makeshift clothesline between two marble pillars.

"I wasn't aware we _had _a clothesline," he mused.

Esme hid her face as she admitted, "I just snagged one of the ropes from the curtains in the dining room."

He stopped walking when she did, and she wondered if knowing this had made him angry. But when she looked back at him she saw that he wore an uncontainable grin.

"You are quite...resourceful, Esme."

"That is an elegant way of putting it," she laughed easily as she began expertly picking the clothespins off the rope.

Carlisle gracefully caught the garments that fell as she plucked each pin from its place until they reached the end of the rope.

"I hoped that keeping it under the porch roof would protect the clothes just in case it started to rain," she explained, gesturing to the patches of gray clouds growing in the sky.

"Hmm, we may have to move this line inside somewhere."

"I was thinking of putting it up in the washroom, but then that wouldn't be very convenient when one of us wanted to bathe."

Her chest tightened in mortification, wondering why on earth she had felt it necessary to share that information with him. Obviously not knowing what to say in response, Carlisle remained awkwardly silent with the pile of shirts in his arms behind her.

Hastily she turned around, pretending nothing had happened and directed him back into the kitchen.

"We'll make do with what we have," she reasoned, trying to chase away the little butterflies that suddenly congregated in her stomach.

Once inside, she allowed herself to watch Carlisle fold the clothes from the corner of her eye. She observed him in secret while she finished the washing, quietly admiring his every detail-oriented move in tucking the sleeves beneath the back of the shirt and straightening out the collar so it laid perfectly flat.

The dancing butterflies in her belly quickened in excitement as he extracted one of her own dresses from the pile of clothes. Looking a little closer she noticed it was not just any dress; it was a slip that she wore _under _her dress.

His hands looked so capable and strong when they held the delicate gown, yet he touched it as if it might ripple into dust if he handled it too roughly. His fingers worked carefully to tie the tiny laces on the neckline, with all the intense concentration he would have used when stitching up one of his patients. She could swear she felt her dead heart pumping furiously while she watched him smooth out the front of the silky skirt, palms flat against the very places her thighs would have been had she been wearing it...

It was entirely absurd that she was envisioning herself in that dress as he touched it.

It could have been just her imagination, but to her eyes, it looked far more like he was _fondling_ it rather than _folding_ it.

Breathlessly amused by his excessive attentions to that one little white dress, she couldn't resist teasing him a bit. "My dresses truly don't deserve any more attention than your shirts do, Doctor."

Instantly his fingers fled from the ruffled lace collar as if it had just caught fire.

"Oh, forgive me," he stammered with a flustered little chuckle, his composure fascinatingly out of place, fingers trembling slightly. "I only wanted to impress thee."

It came out by accident, an entirely unintentional revelation on his part. Usually he managed to catch himself just before it happened, but this time he had been too late.

He froze immediately when he realized what he had said, regretting the ancient pronoun that had slipped uninvited into his sentence. His fingers paused in midair above her folded dressing gown, his chest mildly tense with each shortened breath he took.

"I, ah..."

It pained her to see him suffer through that invisible blush at his own expense. Such an endearing mistake it had been. He wished to take it back, while she ironically wished to hear it again.

He had no idea how the accidental twist of old English had made her heart skip a beat. He did not know how the soft caress of his lost accent upon the words made her skin and the ends of her fingers prickle with delight.

Esme had of course been well aware of this weakness before, but she had not mentioned anything out of respect for what she perceived to be one of Carlisle's deepest insecurities. As it turned out, she had been right.

He swallowed hard and again attempted to excuse the mistake without directly mentioning it. "I did not mean to waste time," he said weakly, still not meeting her eyes.

Finally, after a pause that seemed to stretch on for eternity, he glanced up at her, his face twisted in innocent agony like a child who feared a harsh beating from his mother.

As if she would ever _beat _him for such a "mistake."

Her incredulous smile must have showcased perfectly how she felt. Suddenly he was chuckling at himself, the tension in his stance melting away as her laughter joined his.

Now that she had lifted up her skirt in front of him, and he had called her "thee" instead of "you", Esme considered them about even in terms of embarrassing moments.

He shook his head at himself, his beautiful blond hair rippling as he moved his head. For a moment he bit his lip in chagrin, and the room was almost silent before he finally spoke.

"I apologize for that little...slip of the tongue," he murmured with a pained smile, the hesitation in his voice breaking her heart. "I suppose it is not much of a secret why it happens."

His eyes crinkled the tiniest bit as he busied himself with prodding the thin material of her folded white dressing gown on the counter.

Thinking there would be no better time to challenge her suspicions, she forwardly asked him, "Why _does_ it happen?"

He looked over at her, eyes widened by a margin. In a simple, hushed voice, he explained. "It happens when I'm nervous, I suppose." He tilted his head to the side and smiled bashfully. "When I'm unsure of what to say."

As much as she struggled to hide her amusement, her lips had already broken into a wide smile. "Folding my dresses makes you nervous?"

She expected her question would make him squirm, but instead his gaze was more steady than it had been their entire conversation.

"When you are watching me from the corner of your eye, it does."

She vaguely wondered if he was only teasing her...but then he probably would not have spoken in such a sinfully deep whisper if he had only meant to tease.

"I wasn't watching you," she refuted immediately, her hands diving back into the water to continue harshly washing the clothes on the rack.

His voice was still suspicious. "It felt like you were."

"Rest assured, I was not," she said airily, hardly convincing herself.

"If you say so."

There was a discreet smile to his voice.

She turned slightly with a wicked grin when he was not looking, and on a ridiculous whim, she flicked a sprinkle of soapy water from her fingers in his direction.

"The idea is to wash the _clothing_, Esme, not _me_."

While the idea of washing Carlisle sounded frightfully inviting, Esme could not stop the peals of laughter as he suddenly retaliated with a more forceful splash of water toward her.

She gasped in outrage when his arms invaded her space, brushing hers beneath the surface of the bubbly water as he searched for one of his own shirts. She barely managed to brace herself when she realized what he was about to do. Taking the sopping wet shirt in his hands, he lifted it above her head and twisted it, letting the water rain relentlessly over her hair.

His rich, robust laughter made her tingle with heat despite being drenched in the freezing cold water.

"Oh, you are going to pay for that!"

Needless to say, not much laundry got done that day. But fortunately the rest of the kitchen got a thorough cleaning.

Like a giddy pair of children, they carried on in their water wars until the rain started falling outside, and it was too late to move the clothesline from the porch as they had planned.

It thrilled Esme in so many secret ways to see Carlisle behaving in such a deliberately childish manner. Without restraint or any regard for civility, he let himself let go in a way she thought she would never see. His playfulness caught her off-guard in a clumsy, half-aware kind of way that was as endearing as it was absurd.

His hair was soon just as wet as her own, locks of silky gold dangling in front of his eyes as his laughter painted irresistible creases in his cheeks. Each time she splashed him, the water left dark speckles across his expensive shirt, and the entire left side of it was so wet that it was practically pasted against his body. He did not utter one care about it. He did not even seem to notice.

Esme had not noticed she was soaked either.

But he was making her wetter with each passing second.

"Stop it right now!" she laughed in defense, a threatening note to her gentle voice. "Stop now, and I promise I won't start calling you Macbeth!"

And then he stopped.

His breathing settled and his laughter faded...but his smile lingered, and so did the tiny sparkles of humor that floated in his eyes. He mercifully surrendered to her plea, lifting one tender finger to tuck a single soaked strand of hair away from her eyes.

Esme was captivated, soaked from head to toe, and in love with doing the laundry.

The sheer comfort and trust Carlisle exuded that day stuck with Esme from then on. Something had changed, opened up, flowered right in front of her. It was never more plain to her than it was that day he offered to help her wash the clothes and ended up washing her instead.

Her friendship with Carlisle was deepening. Quite suddenly, and quite quickly.

_Friendship._ It should have been such a simple concept, yet it could be so delightfully complicated.

There were no rules to how friendships formed, no guidelines that must be fulfilled step by step to have a healthy relationship. Most of the time they simply blossomed by themselves, starting from a small, tentative seed until they grew and flourished into a tall, burgeoning tree. As was true with a tree, springtime was the most appropriate time of year for a relationship to grow.

If someone had told Esme she would be this close to her mysterious Doctor Cullen come the end of the year, she never would have believed them. With each passing day, the familiar shyness between them turned into something sweet and almost comfortable. It was a strange, mutual kind of feeling that they shared when they were in each other's company.

It was as if the sun was melting any insecurities they had, giving way to something intrinsically beautiful. The heat of the coming summer promised a warmth to their affection for each other, bringing a new hopeful light to their home.

She never expected things to come so far so quickly.

Carlisle began asking her to join him in his study almost every other hour. He was doing it so often that Esme had started to welcome herself into the room every morning instead of waiting for his invitation. It felt strange but wonderful to be so close to him that asking to enter his sanctuary was no longer necessary. She found it pleasing and intimate in a way she could never admit.

What was even more pleasing was that Carlisle always seemed so happy to have her near. She helped him sort some of the clutter that had gathered around the spacious room, eager for any chance she had to see the fascinating treasures and antique knick-knacks he had hidden around.

Esme had to hide a stealthy smile as she thought back to the times she used to sneak into Carlisle's study for a chance to look through these things. Now he was begging her to stay and help organize them all for some much needed spring cleaning.

Each tiny trinket she uncovered in the mess brought a delicate flutter to her heart. Everything was a piece of his history, and she would never cease to be fascinated by the stories he told along with them, whether it be a piece of old plywood he had found on the beach in Europe, or a priceless golden statuette he had brought home from Asia.

The more Esme discovered, the more she began to doubt that she would ever fully know Carlisle with the depth that he knew her. There was simply too much to find out about his past, his travels, his beliefs, his interests. There was a delightfully intimidating array of things she simply did not know about him yet, but she was working toward that unattainable knowledge, one question at a time.

And Carlisle answered her every question with an honesty that thrilled her.

One thing that had always amazed her was how Carlisle had never been offended by her curiosity. So many times in her life Esme had been reprimanded for her inquisitiveness, but Carlisle only seemed to encourage it. A beautiful glimmer shone in his golden eyes when she asked him another question about his past. She could see that he gleaned joy from being someone else's subject of interest. Most likely because no one had ever been so interested in him before.

She couldn't understand why. Carlisle was and forever would remain the most fascinating man she had ever known.

She followed him around the study while they dusted off shelves and ordered old books and discussed the origins behind each one. He touched his belongings with a fondness and care to which no other's hands could compare. He would tilt his head with just a hint of a smile, his eyes swimming with memories as he unearthed another old treasure. It was tremendously frustrating for Esme to see that look on his face, wishing she could know every one of the thoughts that flowed secretly behind his genius mind.

That was why her questions never seemed to end.

Carlisle let himself be carried away with the tide, spending hours of his time to explain to her every detail of his travels through exotic countries and the people he had met. It filled Esme with a forbidden kind of exhilaration to think that he would never run out of new stories to tell, even if he continued on for eternity. To spend her life by his side promised so much more than she had previously realized. If he was her husband, perhaps he would share even more intimate stories with her...

The thought made her heart pulse to life. As she stared into his animated eyes while he recounted visits to India and China and the Middle East, she found herself locked in a hopeless trance, fervently lusting after the connection that she could just barely grasp the edges of while he spoke to her alone.

His voice, his mannerisms, his emotions – all were growing more free, more pronounced, more intense the longer she spent with him in this study. As the clutter around him grew, so did his passion. They were supposed to be redecorating, making things neater, but instead they were making even more of a mess. A wonderful, eccentric, delectable mess.

Within just a few days of the seemingly endless project, Esme had seen and heard more of Carlisle's passion than she ever had before. It was like watching him while he sculpted, getting that heavenly little glimpse of his soul through the way he worked and brought his art to life. Only here she was watching him revisit his past with each object he held between his hands…and his eyes became brighter, and his voice became deeper the more he revealed.

They were no longer so tentative to touch one another now. It did not mean the thrill was taken from the gesture – quite the contrary. Instead, Esme found it even more thrilling to _know _she was about to reach out and grab his elbow when she found an exciting new trinket hidden beneath one of the cabinets. She was reeling with delicious anticipation when she came up behind him and placed her hand on his shoulder to get his attention. She was equally overwhelmed by joy when she felt his fingers freely clasp her waist when he wanted to help her reach the top bookshelf. And when he sat beside her on the couch, he no longer kept so much distance between them on the cushions. Instead he placed himself inches away from her, perfectly content to let his knee rest against hers while they sat without an ounce of discomfort.

The closeness was invigorating and strange and exciting. And it only seemed to be growing every day.

One day, he decided to show her some of the very oldest outfits he still kept from the past century, including a lost cravat he'd found in his desk drawer. As a joke, he'd tucked the old lace accent between his collar and asked for her stylistic opinion.

Esme just covered her mouth with her fingers and didn't try very hard to suppress her giggle.

"Alas, I should not spend my time with a woman who doesn't appreciate early 19th Century fashion," he teased, snatching the handful of frothy lace from his throat.

She chewed her bottom lip in amusement as she settled into the chair across from his desk, taking a moment to study the old garments he had uncovered. Her imagination became feverish as she envisioned how Carlisle would have looked wearing such clothing in the 17th and 18th Centuries. The jackets came in such strange colors that men would rarely ever wear in contemporary times. Ripe jade and rich olive green, pale lilac, creamy gold, and a bright blue quite like the peacock colored ink he used to write with. The sleeves of the jackets were adorned with ornate golden buttons and embroidery that rivaled the Rococo style. The breeches that matched each were fashioned from dense, velvety material which she imagined would have flattered the build of his long legs very nicely.

Those dreamy prince-like boots he had worn throughout the winter would have made the perfect touch to the ensemble.

She was almost tempted to ask him to dress himself entirely in colonial garb for her, but she did not want to embarrass him.

Still, that was the only thing stopping her.

"I can't believe you wore these at one time," she said with a smile, running her finger along the brocade trim of one silky jacket sleeve.

"It is a bit overwhelming how much the fashions have changed over the past few centuries," he acknowledged, blinking bashfully at the ostentatious array of clothing. She couldn't help but giggle as he struggled to fold them all back into the heavy old chest he had found them inside.

Esme sat back in her chair after her laughter subsided, glancing curiously around the familiar room. For such a long time, she wondered what had gone on behind the closed doors of Carlisle's study. Now that she was in his company more often than not, she wondered even more fiercely what he did with those private moments when she was not around.

"What do you do in here all of the time?" she asked softly.

Moving behind the desk across from her, he slowly began to recite items as if reading from a list in his mind. "I read. I pray. I work… I write."

The last one caught her attention, as she had found very clear evidence of it before. "You write?" She pretended to be coy.

"Yes." He seemed a fair bit uncomfortable confirming it, though she already knew it to be true.

Esme nudged her knees against the desk as she moved in closer, lifting her shoulders in an approachably sweet fashion. Lowering her voice in a most gentle invitation, she asked him, "What do you write?"

He rubbed the back of his neck with his knuckles. "I assume you have seen that I keep journals. I fill one every year or so."

The back of her neck sizzled in recognition. _Yes, journals... Of course he kept journals..._

"You must have an entire library full of them," she murmured casually.

"I burn them a decade at a time," he said matter-of-factly. "I used to do it every year, but-"

Esme's jaw dropped. "Why would you do that?"

He raised his eyebrows. "I have a flawless memory. Why should I risk someone else finding them?"

"So they are...very personal." She lowered her voice.

He licked his lip in consideration, shrugging one shoulder. "Some more than others."

Her stomach tightened in anticipation of the questions she felt rising up.

"Do you write about your patients?"

He smiled. "Being that they are an integral part of my life, yes, they have earned many pages."

Her heart nudged against her throat.

"Do you write about Edward?"

His head tilted down in a nod.

"Of course."

A slightly worried smile curled upon her lips, her throat suddenly a bit too tight to speak comfortably.

"Do you write about...me?"

He grazed his chin with one finger in mock thought.

"I dedicated one single page to you, in the very back." He opened the book to peek at the last page and lifted an eyebrow. "I see it has yet to be filled."

"How witty." She glared, and he chuckled lightly.

He gave a heavy sigh, the humor slowly slipping from his gaze as his voice turned quiet. "Yes, I have written about you." His eyes were softer, as if he feared revealing this might have made her nervous.

But of course, it didn't. She knew very well that he had written about her before.

The first page in that very journal contained a pouring out of his soul, a devoted monologue to the torment he had suffered for bringing her into this life.

She thought of replying with a teasing, _"Care to share?" _but promptly decided against it. This path could prove to be a dangerous one if they entertained it for much longer. Carlisle was being impressively inviting in the case of his privacy this morning. It was better she didn't abuse the advantage by pushing him further than he was at comfort with.

With a gentle smile of understanding, Esme averted her eyes. "So what other things do you write about?"

He turned to the window, then back to her. "Whatever inspires me at the moment, I suppose."

She looked confused.

"It is a practice some call 'free-writing'," he explained. "Have you ever heard of it?"

She shook her head.

"Essentially one writes whatever comes to his mind – no matter how unorganized the words become – he is capturing his every thought on paper before it leaves his conscious." He poked the surface of the desk with two fingers to punctuate the words.

Esme's eyes widened wistfully.

"That sounds like it could be...intoxicating."

Carlisle all but choked at her assessment, but it seemed more out of agreement than shock. "A strong choice of word," he stammered, looking beautifully uncomfortable.

"Addicting, then," she offered mildly, "It sounds as if it could be addicting."

"I've never thought of it that way, but seeing as I've done it nearly every day for the past century, I suppose it is."

"Did you always write?"

"Not always," he said thoughtfully, "But it was a relief to finally discover it. It does help to ease the feelings of loneliness in a way... and of discontentment." His softened eyes cast down to his hands, his voice stirred by sadness.

"I hope these are not the reasons you continue to write, Carlisle," she whispered sincerely, a slight warning edge to her tone.

His eyes rose with a tender jolt. "No, of course not," he assured just as softly, then a shy smile appeared as he quickly lightened the mood. "I have my hands full with you and Edward now."

She humored him with a giggle. "Thankfully we have not marred your inspiration, then."

He shook his head fondly, looking away.

For a little while, they were comfortably silent. But the question of Carlisle's writing was still searing in the back of her mind. Knowing she had to find out more, Esme tentatively redeemed the subject with a confession of her own.

"When I'm painting, I work best in the early morning," she said softly, waiting for his eyes to move back to her face. Once she had his gaze, she asked him, "When do you like to write?"

He seemed pleasantly astounded, but quietly so. His answer confirmed her suspicions correct. "If I can, right before the sun rises," he revealed in a slightly winded voice. "It seems to be when my inspiration is at its peak."

At this confession, Esme was presented with deliciously vague visions of Carlisle, feverishly scribbling away on his leather-bound journal while lying in bed beside her. He was rapt with his writing as she watched him from her pillow, murmuring to himself as he struggled to capture every word before it fled from him. He was achingly exquisite in her mind – most notably, bare beneath the quilts – as the early pink rays of dawn made a flush for his nude back...

Reality nibbled away at her imaginary sequence before it brought her back with a bite.

"And you write about anything?" she asked, breathless.

"Anything."

Her gaze traveled restlessly to the window, moved by the spellbinding lights of ripe sunrise.

"So you could write about...the sun?" she suggested quietly, glancing back at him from the corner of her eye.

He seemed heavily amused by this.

"I have written about the sun many times."

Knowing this was somehow maddening to Esme.

If he wrote about the sun, then he must have written about the sky. And the ocean. And the trees. And the moon. And heaven.

She found herself shuddering with the need to read everything Carlisle had ever written.

"You have?"

His eyes were disconcertingly sharp when they fell upon her face. "Yes," he said with a frustratingly mysterious smile. "I could never run out of things to say about the sun."

Esme smiled to herself. "Hmm. I've never written much before," she admitted with a shrug. "Inspiration draws me to paint."

At this his smile turned twice as tender, his eyes growing lazy even as their attention brightened unbearably. "Your painting is a lot like my writing," he said, the wisdom of his tenor positively flowing to her ears. "The freedom of expression through color and poetry."

Her mouth quirked into a helpless grin.

"It is," she agreed, finding her voice unrecognizable.

"I see that there is a problem here," Carlisle said suddenly, mischievously enlightened to something she must have missed.

Esme furrowed her brow.

"You have mentored me plenty in the art of painting, but you've not yet had the chance to write," the doctor explained.

Her heart tingled a bit at what he could have been suggesting.

"You want me to write something?" she asked, poking her chest with one finger in disbelief.

"The question is not whether _I_ want you to write something," he corrected softly. "If you find something inspiring, _you _should write about it."

She caved with a frustrated giggle. "I could never _begin_ to choose what I'd write about."

He turned to the window again, his eyes obscenely wistful as he stared at the newly lit horizon. With a simple silken reply, he chose a subject for her.

"The sun."

Esme turned and stared out the window too, needing to see whatever he had seen to make him look the way he did in that moment.

Once again, her breath slipped away from her.

"How do I describe the sun?"

She caught his patient smile from her peripheral. "You don't even need to describe it. You can speak to it; you can imagine what it might say to you..."

Esme sighed, tempted by the magic his suggestion offered, but frustrated by the prospect of finding the right words to create it. Her eyes met the bright spot of her attention, face to face, swimming in the sun's rays in search of the inspiration she sought.

In the midst of her frantic swim, Carlisle slowed her down with a languid whisper. "Don't rush it... Let it come to you."

At his bidding, her thoughts fell tranquil. Words passed through in fleeting patterns, each a tribute to the golden star all of nature worshiped. She thought of all the sun provided, how it never grew tired of _giving _– its light and its warmth and its company – how severely it reminded her of _him_.

"Carlisle... I need paper."

She was instantly presented with a torn page and a fountain pen. Her fingers clasped the pen and a wave of relief washed through her the moment it was in her grasp. She was pleasantly surprised by the deep violet color of the ink as she scribbled the first words.

_The sun is unattainable, but I long to be like it. _

_Everything and everyone loves the sun. Everything needs the sun. The earth would not exist without it. _

_The sun offers warmth and light and life. _

_It is more precious than gold, and more beautiful than any other heavenly body in the sky. _

Her hand settled as her thoughts were all safely printed on the paper before her.

As she looked up, she realized Carlisle had been just as busy writing a page of his own. His free hand was curled around nothing, laying lazily over the edge of the paper to hide what he wrote. Her eyes were drawn from his sleepy eyelids down the strong slopes of his face, settling contentedly where he pressed the end of the pen to the innocent fullness of his lower lip.

He set the pen down a few moments after she had, and he smiled knowingly as he lightly nudged his page of scrawled blue ink towards her.

Then he swiftly switched it with her page of violet ink.

"You aren't going to read that!" she defended, albeit weakly. Some part of her _wanted _him to read it, and she could not bring herself to deny it before him.

His smile never faltered as his eyes dropped a bit tauntingly to the paper he now held between his hands.

"I've given you mine," he reminded patiently.

Oh... he had...

Her eyes immediately glued themselves to the neatly written thoughts he had placed before her. Before she could even catch her breath, she was drowning in a sea of peacock blue script.

_The sun is loyal because it is always above me._ _Every day, it swerves across the sky in a perfectly predictable schedule. The sun is faithful because it will always return again _– _every night it hides away, but every morning it rises again. Even when I cannot see it, I know it will never be gone for good. _

_A star cannot love, but I feel love from the sun. It seems as if it watches over me, as if it knows me intimately. I feel its heated gaze on my face each morning, reminding me of that love._

_There are billions of stars in the universe, but the sun is the only one I need. It is the only star I have learned to love… because I can feel its love for me._

Though her heart literally ached from the beauty of his words, she could not bear to be silent as he watched her, waiting for her reply.

"Yours is so much more beautiful than mine," she whimpered.

His face became so flustered that she could not tell whether he was flattered by her compliment or in vehement disagreement with what she had said. He chuckled awkwardly and shook his head, errant strands of blond wilting against his temples.

"No person's writing holds more beauty than another's. So long as it comes from the heart, all are equally precious."

For a few moments she stared into his eyes, grinning in silence.

"Perhaps you should have been a professor of writing, Doctor," she mused.

"Who would I teach?"

"Young people."

His eyes sparkled in the midst of his hearty laughter. "To me, that includes everyone."

With a bashful grin, she placed her chin in her hands and leaned on the edge of his desk. "I wasn't thinking of it in that way."

He merely continued chuckling to himself, his eyes fond but far away. "If only my current profession offered me more spare time."

"You mean you _would _like to teach?"

"I wouldn't mind it, I suppose," he sighed, twirling the fountain pen absently between his fingers. "Would you?"

"Me?"

"Yes, does teaching appeal to you?"

Slowly she nodded. "Well...yes. Yes, it does."

"You were a schoolteacher at one time in your life," he reminded softly.

"Yes, Edward said that. But I hardly remember at all."

With a thoughtful expression, Carlisle set the pen down on his desk and hid it beneath his hand. "Maybe…you would want to teach again someday."

Several months ago, this would have been a threat. Several weeks ago, perhaps, this might have seemed a foolish hope. But now Esme found herself unable and unwilling to reject the possibility.

One day, she _could _teach. One day, she _could _rejoin the world.

"Maybe..." she agreed, for a moment happily lost in Carlisle's wise golden gaze.

His smile was radiant.

They began the day with several more successful "blood tests." Esme was flawless in her resistance, and Carlisle was flawless in his encouragement.

_"You're getting closer every day," _he would say to her, smiling, as he closed the vials. He was always so happy, always so positive.

It was true, Esme could accept, that she was getting closer to perfect control every day. But control, in the end, was not all that held her interest.

Her happiness was not the result of coming closer to perfect control. She was unspeakably happy because, in the end, she was really coming closer to _him._

* * *

_**A/N: **_

_**Read Carlisle's POV of this chapter in Behind Stained Glass "Chapter 32: Much to Write About"**_


	54. Thank You for the Dance

**Chapter 54:**

**Thank You for the Dance**

* * *

April was always the loveliest of the months, a frilly interlude between the cold and the warm of the world. It seemed shy, peeking its pretty head around the corner with the promise of life and renewal, yet it was not loud and boastful of its fertility, unlike May and June and July.

There were showers every other day – magical raindrops that melted on the clover and pulled up rainbows of exotic wildflowers that had never been there before. They simply and suddenly appeared on the ground, like creative ideas in the mind of an artist. April was the most brilliant of nature's artists.

With the patience to watch these little miracles, Esme looked on from her window as the yard grew steadily less green and more red and pink and yellow and powder blue. She watched her doctor leave early in the mornings, no longer with crushed fall leaves to line his path. Instead the breeze now sent multi-colored flower petals skittering around his ankles like confetti while he walked down the drive. She watched Edward take off for town on the weekdays, and the sparrows seemed to sing extra loudly to get his attention whenever he went outside.

Everything about the spring was designed to victimize happiness, but Easter had always been Esme's favorite holiday. It seemed somewhat more significant than Christmas, having such intense preparation, such a profound building up of events for one single moment. The most devout followers were aware of this, and that was what made it even more special.

Faith was not the same as practice. Esme knew this, and she could not fool God into believing that she truly meant the prayers that came naturally this time of year. She prayed for selfish reasons – the desire to never again disappoint the doctor being her highest priority, above any other moral credits she might need relinquished. They fell by the wayside, these little bits of her that once mattered. She was like an elegant serpent on the ground, shedding her skin a little more every day, waiting to see what was revealed underneath.

Esme was beside herself in her metamorphosis. The occasional purposeful brush against Carlisle's arm as she passed him became a methodical occurrence. He didn't notice her subtle inward turmoil, but that was only because she had found some odd contentment in the struggle. She was mad to some degree, as she always had been, but now it was an accepted madness. Some lovesick variation on spring fever, perhaps. She had long since ceased trying to conceal the sensations for Edward's sake, but her charade with Carlisle was as impeccable as his demeanor. Goodness knows how many times she coughed wily remarks about powdered sugar under her breath when only Edward was there for company.

Carlisle had taken to acting more like a doctor than was usual. He never took that God-forsaken stethoscope off his neck these days. She'd seen the flexible wire of black and metal looking sleek against a different color sweater or cotton shirt each day. Along with the soothing rattle of prescription pills in his pocket, she half-expected him to begin strutting about in his white lab coat as if the house were his own hospital. She would have gladly volunteered herself as his patient. His general sigh-worthiness had amplified a hundred times over.

Time went by too quickly for Esme when she spent every hour of every day with Carlisle. She enjoyed each evening in his study until her every project was finished, and the end result was pleasing to them both.

They had to make several compromises before Carlisle was as happy with the arrangement of the furniture as he was with the organization of his books. Together they had gone through every possible combination of each piece of art he had hung on the walls until they both settled on the best order for display.

In the end, the study looked nearly the same as it had before they had taken it apart, only slightly more neat and tidy. It truly wouldn't have mattered what the room looked like after all their work. It was the amount of time they spent together doing it that had made it all worthwhile.

"And now I must thank you for all your help," Carlisle told Esme as they stood back to appraise the spotless room together. "It looks perfect."

Esme cocked her head critically. "You don't think we took all the character out of it, do you?"

"Oh, no. No concerns there," Carlisle chuckled, eyes wistful as they glanced from window to window. "I don't think it's possible to take the character out of this room."

"There is something about it, isn't there?" Esme concurred. "I can understand now why you want to spend all your time in here. You'd think after all that time we spent taking it apart and putting it back together again that I'd never want to look at it again... but somehow I still don't want to leave this room."

"I don't want you to leave it either," he said with a charming little smile. "I've grown too used to your company, I think." Some of the light left his eyes as he said softly, "Just between us, I will miss reorganizing books and rearranging furniture all night long with you."

An awkward giggle fled her lips. "I'll miss it, too."

"Maybe we can offer the same treatment to another room of the house," he suggested hopefully.

Esme grinned. "Oh, could we? I already have some tentative plans for the little library upstairs."

He gave her a soft, amused smile. "We should get started, then. We're expecting company soon."

But one and a half days of work were hardly enough for them to finish refurnishing the library.

The morning when Carmen and Eleazar planned to visit came sooner than Esme expected. She had little time to prepare for the guests, and despite Carlisle's persistent assurances that there was no possible way they would ever be displeased with her, she still insisted on making sure everything in the house was perfect for their arrival.

Nevertheless, Esme was excited for their visit; after all she had never had the chance to meet any others of their kind until now, much less any other humans. And it made her smile with relief to imagine what it would be like to spend some time with another female after living so long with only males. But no matter how eager she may have been to meet Carlisle's friends, a part of her was still very anxious for it, and she wasn't quite sure why.

Edward, on the other hand, was in a frightfully cheerful mood whenever someone mentioned the Denalis' visit.

Esme had never seen Edward so wound with excitement. It made her feel a bit sorry for him – so many months had gone by where he had little more than books and music to pass the time, and the companionship of only two people could prove tiring at best after so long. He craved variety, as many young men do. It was to be expected that he would look forward anxiously to new company.

Esme was anxious for an entirely different set of reasons.

How would this pair of vampires perceive her upon their first meeting? Would they see her as an inferior – just another pesky newborn? Would they patronize her or treat her like a child? Would they be overly polite in an effort to make her feel at ease? Or would they simply accept her as Carlisle and Edward had, without a question or doubt?

Surely being the friends of Carlisle Cullen meant they must have shared his compassion and kindness to some degree. Then again, Carlisle had been very close with the Volturi, and from all Esme had heard about them, there was no telling what any of Carlisle's other "friends" would be like...

Carlisle naturally noticed that she was nervous.

"They will adore you, I promise," he murmured for what seemed like the hundredth time into her ear. Soothed by the sureness in his voice, Esme relaxed a bit.

The morning they were set to arrive, she had changed her outfit three times, and her hairstyle twice. She had debated for at least ten minutes between wearing brown shoes or blue shoes, and she spent more than twenty-five minutes in the bathtub.

Having no time left to finish the laundry or spruce up the parlor like she had planned, Esme suspected Carlisle might be disappointed in how little she had accomplished before noon. But he said nothing of the chores that had gone unfinished, not even one remark on her obvious fidgeting as she abused the hallway mirror a final time to be sure she looked presentable.

When the time came, he took her hand in his and waited on the porch with her while Edward headed into the yard to greet their guests. Out of the woods they appeared at exactly the time they'd proposed, walking hand in hand toward the house. Esme tilted her head forward in curiosity to get a closer look.

The man was every bit as handsome as Carlisle and Edward, only his features were infinitely darker than her counterparts'. One did not have to know Eleazar personally to be aware of his Spanish descent. His noble face was framed by thick locks of jet black hair, his skin a tinge more tanned than a typical vampire's, snow white with a shadow of caramel. His dark brows were stern, and the angles of his face were fully pronounced, a sculptor's dream. Even the way he moved seemed slightly rigid, but in a soldierly way that gave him an intimidating but appealing sort of flair. He was dressed in a surprisingly contemporary styled suit of navy blue with a crisp white collar beneath. He carried with him nothing but the hand of the woman who walked beside him.

She was only slightly less tall than her husband, with a svelte frame and long, sinewy limbs. She was a breathtaking vision walking along the misty road. Her clothes were handmade, exotic and extremely flattering to the delicate olive tone of her skin. She wore a long skirt made from velvety fabric in a rich, mossy green color that flashed sharp blue in the changing light. Tresses of silky black hair cascaded over her shoulders, with tiny braids twisted throughout. The only thing about her appearance that one would perceive to be unfitting was the pair of rugged brown hiking boots she wore on her feet. But Esme could not see the masculine accessories as being a hindrance to this woman's appearance. In fact, they seemed to only enhance her unique and exotic charm. She carried with her a small carpet bag, and with each step she took, a trio of golden hoop bracelets jingled around her wrist.

Esme watched the pair pause in the middle of the yard to embrace Edward and exchange a few words of greeting. Their perceived friendliness with the boy made the tense knot in her belly loosen just a bit. Edward gathered up Carmen's carpet bag and happily led them the rest of the way up to the porch.

As the couple came closer, Esme could make out their identical golden eyes, and the sight filled her with a familiar sense of relief. A shiver of gratitude raced too quickly up her arm as Carlisle's hand gave a conscious squeeze around her own. He stepped forward slightly, still holding her hand as he called out amiably to his friends, "Welcome to Ashland."

"Enjoying the weather already," Eleazar quipped, holding his palm out to catch the drizzle. Edward mocked him from behind by sticking out his tongue to taste the raindrops, and Esme smiled nervously, aware that the boy was just trying to put her at ease.

Carlisle chuckled behind her as the couple approached the porch, and he gently nudged Esme forward to stand in front of him. "I'd like to introduce you to the newest member of our coven," he said, surprising her with his formal choice of word. "Eleazar, Carmen." He nodded politely toward each of them before he placed both hands on each of her shoulders and said, "This is Esme."

"Dear Esme!" Carmen gushed with an astonishingly bright smile. Esme was immediately overwhelmed by the warmth of the young woman as she quickly walked up to her, stole her hand from Carlisle's, and encased it between her own. "It is simply a _delight _to meet you!" Her accented voice somehow put Esme even more at ease.

"Likewise," Esme murmured shyly as her hand was then taken by the woman's husband.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Esme." He smiled warmly at her after placing a suave kiss on her knuckles.

"The pleasure is mine." With Carlisle's hands still on her shoulders and all eyes on her, Esme felt vaguely like a young school girl practicing the manners of introduction. "You have certainly come a long way to be with us."

Afraid that she may have stated the obvious, Esme winced as the words left her mouth. But Carmen's eyes were alight with joy. "It was no trouble. The company of good friends is worth any distance."

Eleazar nodded in agreement, still smiling approvingly at Esme where she stood in front of Carlisle. The doctor's hands on her shoulders slipped away suddenly, leaving her to feel like a child whose father had just abandoned her in a crowded place.

"Won't you come inside?" Carlisle gestured towards the door, holding it open as the rest stepped into the foyer.

Esme lingered behind the group, feeling her sense of attachment with Carlisle was becoming awfully stretched. Normally she would not feel such a great need to be directly beside him. She supposed it had something to do with the extra company.

Carlisle had reserved a reassuring smile for her as she passed him on her way through the door. Though it gave her the brief connection with him that she had been longing for, it still left her feeling the need for more.

"Oh, what a charming home you have!" Carmen exclaimed when she saw the interior of the house.

Her husband had quite an opposite reaction.

"Good heavens, it's huge!" Eleazar said robustly, his declaration echoing in the high-ceiling foyer. "Carlisle, surely you don't need such space! How on earth do you expect to remain discreet in a place like this?"

Carlisle opened his mouth to reply, but Edward quickly interrupted, linking one arm around the stair post with a theatrical gleam in his eye. "Oh, but that's the best part. The whole town thinks this property is _haunted_!"

Carmen burst into a delicate flurry of giggles while Eleazar glanced between Edward and Carlisle suspiciously. "Is that so?"

Carlisle sheepishly nodded, leaning against the front door until it closed behind him.

"Might there be a cemetery out back, then?" Eleazar asked curiously, sidling towards the back door through the hallway. Edward quickly jumped from the stairs to join him, throwing open the back door to show them the wide yard behind the house.

Esme's eyebrows shot up in surprise. She had never seen Edward so eager over something so unspectacular. Carlisle sighed heavily as he followed them out the back door and joined them on the porch.

"No cemetery that we know of," Edward stated with a slight frown as he squinted out across the field of grass and trees.

"But there is a lovely lake, look!" Carmen said, pointing to the calm blue waters at the end of the property.

"Lake Cordial," Esme piped up, seizing the chance to share her sparse knowledge of the property before Edward could. "That's what they call it in these parts," she added with a small smile in Carlisle's direction.

She saw him quickly avert his eyes, his lips twisting into a fleeting smile of his own at the memory of their first time wading in its crystal waters together.

_Strange that they had both thought of that just from one mention of the lake..._

Carmen placed a finger on her chin as she gazed out at the water. "I wonder why they call it that."

"That's one for the books," Edward muttered offhandedly, throwing Carlisle an odd glare as he hoisted himself over the veranda railing. "Come and see my archer's bow!" he shouted over his shoulder as he began running towards his target set near the side of the house.

The group naturally followed Edward into the yard, taking the more traditional route of the stairs. By the time they reached the side of the house, Edward had already slung his quiver of arrows over his shoulder, holding out his expensive collector's bow for all to admire.

"Carlisle bought it for me when we moved in," he said proudly, throwing Carlisle another very awkward glance.

"Oh, how generous of him!" Carmen said, looking back to Carlisle with a look of sweet adoration.

Esme watched Carlisle shift his feet in the grass, attempting to smile convincingly back. It was becoming harder and harder for her to pretend she did not notice that something was most definitely on his mind.

Eleazar suddenly turned to Edward with a knowing grin, gesturing to the bull's-eye board that was nailed to the tree. "You don't seem like the type of man who prefers a stationary target, Edward."

Edward played along, smirking as he began to walk casually towards his father. "Unfortunately Carlisle won't let me use his _head_ for practice," he said, flicking a lock of Carlisle's blond hair upright with the tip of the arrow. The doctor shuffled out of the way to dodge it before it could touch his forehead, pressing a protective hand over his hair.

Carmen giggled conservatively. Carlisle did not appear amused.

"Well then, we should have some _real_ target practice for a change! What do you say, Carlisle?" Eleazar suggested brightly.

Edward looked ecstatic.

Carlisle tipped his head in consideration, his eyes bound to the grass, strangely cerebral. It looked as though he had just surrendered to an all-consuming daydream.

"He'll come with us," Edward confirmed loudly. Carlisle looked up sharply, clearly not thrilled at his son's nature to speak for him just because he could read his thoughts. "Let's go."

Eleazar sent the doctor a slightly concerned glance before grabbing an extra bow and racing after Edward towards the forest.

"He's quite active, that Edward," Carmen chimed conversationally as she stepped beside Carlisle. "I don't know how you managed him when he was a newborn."

"It was not easy," Carlisle sighed, a glimmer of stern fondness in his distant eyes. At the touch of Carmen's fingers on his wrist, he smiled tightly and excused himself to follow after his son. "And as you can see, I'm still chasing after him."

Esme's eyes burned for a second, staring with irrational envy at the place where Carmen had briefly touched Carlisle's hand. But as soon as he disappeared into the forest, the unpleasant feeling gradually faded.

She turned to find Carmen's pretty almond-shaped gaze complemented by an all-knowing smile.

"Men are strange creatures," the Spaniard sighed.

"I couldn't agree more," Esme agreed.

Without the pressure of anyone else presence, Esme found Carmen's company just as pleasing as she'd anticipated from the beginning. It was so easy to talk to another woman about anything and everything, never having to worry about being judged or questioned for her feelings. It was not the same forthright bluntness she was comfortable using around Edward, but neither was it the subtle treading coyness she tended to display with Carlisle. Esme simply had forgotten what it felt like to confide in another woman of her own age.

As much as she loved Carlisle and Edward, she knew she was going to miss that comforting female presence when Carmen left. She had to embrace every moment of it now while it lasted.

They spoke of everything, both enlightening and mundane. Carmen told of her travels round the world and her troubles at home, and Esme told of the woes of her newborn thirst and how she was working to control it. They compared problems and shared amusing moments of understanding and empathy. Carmen had a kind, subtle wisdom to her voice and face that brought a great comfort to Esme, a feeling she could only compare to having a mother figure of her very own. Though Carmen was physically more suited to be her sister, Esme felt that her knowledge and security ranked her a little higher on the ladder of age.

After trying so hard to be like a mother for Edward, Esme found it very appealing to finally have someone take that role for her.

"Oh, you have come so far for a newborn, Esme," Carmen said. "You must trust my word on the matter. I have seen some beastly newborns in my time."

Nothing was more complimentary to Esme than such a bold comparison.

"Thank you, Carmen. I can't tell you how much relief it brings me to hear that."

"It should. You have turned out beautifully. If Carlisle had not told me your true age, I would guess you were somewhere in your third or fourth year of this life."

Esme felt a light heat fill her neck. "Honestly, I can't take much credit for my progress. It is because of _his_ guidance that I am doing this well."

Carmen squinted slightly in confusion. "Whose, dear?"

"Carlisle's, of course," Esme clarified.

"Oh, forgive me," Carmen said with a relieved smile. "For a moment I thought you were referring to God."

"Ah..."

Before Esme could think of a suitable response to this strange remark, the conversation was interrupted by a rather loud masculine wail coming from the woods.

Carmen clicked her tongue and shook her head. "Oh, dear."

"Who was that?" Esme asked in a panic. "It sounded like—"

Just as she was about to say his name, Edward went dashing through the tall trees just beyond the property, yelping out a string of particularly inelegant curse words.

The unsettling sound of an arrow whipping out of a bow, streaking through the air and hitting something hard echoed through the yard just as Edward vanished from sight. Another yelp followed by rich baritone laughter flooded the vicinity.

"What on earth are they doing in there?" Esme demanded, scrambling curiously up to the trees.

"Using each other as targets, I'd gather," Carmen said nonchalantly.

"You mean—?"

Another snap of an arrow hitting a vampire's hard skin echoed through the forest, confirming Esme's suspicions. She turned to Carmen with a look of outrage, failing to hide her immediate concern over Carlisle getting harmed.

But Carmen looked completely calm and even amused. "Oh, it doesn't _injure _them or anything, darling. It just..._stings _them a little_,_" she concluded with an impish grin.

******-}0{-**

Later in the afternoon when the boys had finished their playful target practice in the woods, Esme was relieved to find that none of them looked to be in pain or were sporting any visible bruises. Only Carlisle looked mildly irritable, but Edward assured her that it was only because he had ended up with the lowest score out of the three of them.

When the rain started to come down harder, they decided it best to wait out the storm indoors.

"So, Esme, you must tell me – what is it you enjoy doing most in your spare time around here?" Eleazar asked conversationally as they made their way through the hallway.

"I've done quite a bit of painting," she replied, pausing to open the doors to the ballroom and reveal its new green walls. "I just finished the walls in the ballroom, in fact."

Carmen sighed in approval as she looked around the room.

"Lovely hobby," Eleazar remarked. "Anything else?"

Esme frowned to herself, wondering if perhaps they were looking for a more important contribution she had made the coven. She thought briefly of mentioning that she was doing the household's laundry all by herself, but then thought it better not to mention it when she saw Edward's wary expression.

"Well, I also clean and reorganize the house," she blurted proudly as she closed the doors to the ballroom and pranced ahead of the group, pointing to various spots of the aging architecture that she had fixed. "I've replaced some of the window frames and polished the tiles and trimmed the hedges and—"

"My _dear_, you mustn't!" Carmen gushed, turning to the doctor with a shocked look of disapproval. "Carlisle! Surely you keep in mind that many accommodations must be made to keep her from being too under-stimulated."

_Dear Lord._

"Under...under-stimulated?" Carlisle choked, wide-eyed and clueless as to what Carmen was implying.

"Well, a woman cannot be content with only painting and housework, you know!"

Edward crinkled his forehead innocently. "She can't?"

Esme tried her very best not to look mortified as Carmen clicked her tongue and waltzed over to the covered instruments in the corner of the room. With a graceful sweep of her arm, she tugged a dusty white sheet away to reveal the tall, ornately rendered silver harp.

"Have you played any instruments before, dear?" she asked Esme.

"Only a bit of piano," Esme replied, sharing a brief smile with Carlisle. "Edward was kind enough to teach me."

Esme self-consciously rubbed her wrist as Carmen situated herself before the harp with her lithe arms outstretched as if to embrace it. As she pulled her fingers along it, the harp's strings rippled backward in a shimmering melody. The river of sweet sound flooded the room and slipped into silence as her fingers parted with the strings, leaving behind a faint crystal hum to echo off the walls.

"You play the harp," Esme stated numbly, her jealousy flaring for a frustrating moment.

Carmen smiled simply and silently at her slightly stunned audience.

"Hmm, yes, and she won't leave until she has forced _you_ to learn as well," Eleazar warned Esme with a fond glance at his wife's back.

"Are you interested in learning to play it, Esme?" Carmen asked.

Unsure as to why the question begged a glimpse of her sire, Esme found her eyes locked on Carlisle who was standing the furthest away from the scene. His light features seemed dark though none of him was in shadow, but his eyes were bright as they stared back at her. Everything about him was so entirely unreadable, it made her want to shout at something.

"I am very interested," she replied almost defiantly. Firmly planting herself on the chair beside Carmen, Esme tucked her long hair behind her shoulders and faced the intimidating instrument.

"Despite her many talents, my wife is not a trained teacher, Esme," Eleazar said as he passed the pair on his way to the door. "If she gives you any trouble, you just tell her you'd like to trade her in for a _professional_."

"Oh, hush now," Carmen shooed him away with a flick of her wrist, and a jingle of her many golden bracelets.

Her husband left the room, his chuckling echoed by that of an equally amused teenage boy...but not that of a quiet, observant doctor.

"It isn't polite to hover, Carlisle," Carmen murmured with a knowing smile, craning her neck back to stare at him.

Esme's first instinct was to protest, but she kept her lips tightly sealed. She stared pleadingly back at Carlisle where he leaned precariously against the doorframe, his face still calm and unfazed. Without so much as a blink, he slipped silently out into the hall.

"He's been so quiet since your arrival," Esme sighed apologetically. "I don't know why."

"Carlisle has always been very quiet," Carmen said softly, her almond-shaped eyes thoughtful. "As long as I've known him, he's always kept to himself." She shrugged.

"For a while he seemed to be opening up more around me," Esme added, trying not to sound too insistent.

Carmen looked surprised. "Opening up? About his past?"

Innocently, Esme nodded.

"You should know he does not speak about his past so freely with everyone," she said softly, the mystical tone of her accent making the words seem twice as secretive. "For years, Edward was the only one that Carlisle entrusted with his history – and seeing as the boy reads minds, it seems Carlisle had no choice with him."

As much as she despised gossip, this particular subject had piqued Esme's curiosity. "Do you think Carlisle would have kept his past a secret from Edward otherwise?"

"I do think that," Carmen said without hesitation. "But I do not know Carlisle as well as you must."

The assumption made Esme's heart shiver. "I... Well, I don't know him _that _well."

"I think you know him better than you realize," Carmen whispered with a sidelong glance at Esme as she gently plucked the strings of the harp to mask their conversation. "You're very observant for a newborn... That isn't meant to sound patronizing, dear."

"Not at all," Esme said quickly. "I honestly can't help but notice things, sometimes. To say nothing of how often I _wonder _about things… Curiosity is my biggest weakness."

Carmen's hands fluttered into an elaborate minor chord, a mildly wicked grin on her beautiful face. "Ah, yes, Carlisle did say that about you."

Esme shot up in her chair. "What?"

"Oh, dear!" Carmen held a slender set of fingers to her lips, with a giggle that did not seem so apologetic. "I don't believe he would have appreciated me telling you that."

Esme was only more curious now. "When did he tell you about me?"

"In his letters," Carmen said simply. "He's been writing to us about you for a while."

"He has?" She hadn't meant to sound so breathless.

"We _are _his closest friends, Esme. We expect to hear about the most exciting things in his life. What could be more exciting than having a beautiful newborn vampire around?" Carmen asked rhetorically with a winning smile.

Esme blushed inside.

"Come now, let's prove to my husband that I _am _a professional teacher."

******-}0{-**

After a good hour of learning to play the harp, Esme's fingers felt more dizzy than talented. Despite Eleazar's insistence that his wife was not the best teacher, Esme had come to find Carmen's technical expertise and abundant patience much more satisfying than Edward's. Though the harp was quite different from the piano, both belonged to the string family, and both produced sounds of unfettered beauty.

In time, Carmen decided that Esme had graduated from beginner to intermediate. Learning the basics was all she had needed to start on the right track, and with a bit of practice every day, she would soon become an expert.

While the men situated themselves in the study to play cards, Esme took Carmen upstairs to see the rest of the house. When the tour ended in the master suite, Esme realized just how long it had been since she had spent an entire night in the room, curled up on the bed while the darkness dragged on into daylight. Since she had started spending her nights with Carlisle in his study, she never found time to come back to her room before the sun rose in the morning. It was strange to be back in the vast blue room again, especially with the company of another.

Carmen, being as beautiful as she was, looked quite at home in the stunning suite. Her long skirt dragged on the carpet as she crossed over to the windows, and she parted the heavy blue curtains to admire the view of the lake.

"What human could ever fall asleep with a view like this out their bedroom window?"

"I wonder the same thing sometimes," Esme sighed, watching a flock of geese glide silently over the wall of pine trees behind the house.

Carmen smiled to herself as she turned slowly and let her eyes scan the richly decorated room. "Do you know anything about the family who used to live in this house, whose bedroom this could have been?"

"No, nothing more than rumors," Esme noted. "Although I sometimes like to imagine that a group of sisters shared this room," she added with a grin. Hours ago she would have been embarrassed to reveal such a silly thought to Carmen, but now she felt completely at ease.

Carmen was bound to humor her.

"Hmmm. How many sisters do we think lived here?"

"Four," Esme decided.

"I live with three other females," Carmen groaned. "I don't think it would be so pleasant to share a room with them, even one of this size."

"Oh, but that's exactly the problem," Esme said, gesturing theatrically around the vanity table. "The sisters who once lived here fought all of the time! They were always stealing each other's belongings and invading each other's space."

Carmen smirked. "But there is only one bed."

Esme gave the massive piece of furniture a well-practiced look of critique. How she hated that bed.

"It is large enough to fit at least four, don't you think?"

Carmen only chuckled.

Esme watched as the graceful brunette moved in front of the vanity mirror to tie her long dark hair into an elaborate braid. Somewhat self-consciously, Esme fiddled with a few lighter strands of her own hair, wondering if she should have taken such careful attention to styling every evening. True, a beautiful and elaborate hairstyle would do little to make a man fall in love with her, but she imagined it wouldn't hurt either.

"My housekeeper used to braid my hair when I was a girl," Esme found herself saying to Carmen's reflection while she watched.

Carmen smiled warmly, a glint of confusion doing little to harden her naturally soft amber stare. "Now, that is a wonderful memory to keep. Hold on to that one, my dear."

As she finished tucking the very last strands behind her own ears, Carmen's gaze lit with interest. "Do you mind if I braid your hair as well?"

With an all too grateful smile, Esme approached the vanity, seating herself easily beside the elder vampire on the cushioned bench. "I'd love that, thank you."

The gentle tug of hands on her hair was a great comfort to Esme. Sad as it was to acknowledge, a touch so intimate was rarely felt when the only two members of her house were men. It had been so long since she experienced the feeling of another's fingers weaving through her tresses with purpose, with care.

"I must braid my sisters' hair nearly every night," Carmen sighed. "I do miss it while I am away."

"I'm sure they must miss it as well," Esme added, eyes closed in contentment as the woman's expert fingers twisted her hair into a full, elegant braid.

"Look how beautiful you are, Esme," Carmen murmured in her thick accent as her hands fell away to admire her work.

Obediently, Esme looked into the mirror before them. Her immortal beauty was undeniable, this much was true. But the raven-haired Spaniard in the corner of her peripheral seemed an impossible standard to pass. It almost made Esme feel embarrassed to be called beautiful in this woman's eyes. Only now, staring at both their reflections in the light of a soft orange lamp did Esme realize how great a chasm existed between them with regards to physical beauty. Carmen was a goddess.

"Why this frown?" the goddess asked, touching Esme's cheek with disapproval.

Esme quickly righted her lips. "I suppose I'm just sad that I'll never be able to recreate this without your help," she excused with a melancholy chuckle, stroking the perfect plait that lay over her shoulder.

Carmen smiled back kindly through the mirror. "But that is no problem. I can teach you easily. I _am _a professional teacher, you know."

******-}0{-**

At eight o'clock in the evening, the rain finally let up. The sky was stained purple from the lingering clouds that hovered over the sunset, and the air was cool and moist, tainted with the scent of early spring flowers.

While the boys went out racing in the mountains, Esme spent hours with Carmen in her bedroom, showing her every last piece of clothing she owned in her wardrobe. She took Carmen's well meaning advice for which outfits she should consider altering and which she should simply give to a charity house.

Apparently Carmen thought very little of Carlisle's taste in women's clothing.

"There is nothing wrong with dressing traditionally," Carmen said carefully as her fingers tugged the hem of a particularly old-fashioned wool working dress. "But you shouldn't confine yourself to such clothing when there is a movement of liberating women's style going on right outside your doorstep."

Esme protested politely, insisting that since she was never seen by the public eye, she had no incentive to dress by the latest fashion standards.

Still, Carmen was strangely persistent in her coaxing. "You may not be seen by the public eye, but there are always other eyes around to impress."

Esme didn't dare wonder what Carmen meant by that comment.

It was clear what she was trying to do, the moment she requested to see the closet.

She wanted Esme to impress Carlisle.

A part of Esme wanted to say that Carlisle accepted her no matter what she wore or how fashionable she was. Carlisle was the least likely person to judge someone based on their clothing choices, especially when he was not exactly up to par with the latest fashions either. Still, another part of her wondered whether her lack of style made her look drab in comparison with the other women Carlisle saw daily when he went into town.

When she looked in the mirror, Esme saw a lost and insecure face staring back at her. Perhaps it was time to start making some changes. If she was going to embrace her newfound confidence in control, she may as well think about embracing confidence in costume.

"How do you think I should dress this evening?" Esme asked Carmen's wise reflection.

"I hope you don't think me presumptuous, but I did happen to bring along a little gift for you," the brunette said with a nod toward her carpet bag sitting on the mattress.

******-}0{-**

No more than ten minutes later Esme found herself staring back at a face that did not look so lost and insecure. Carmen's gift suited her perfectly – a stunning knee-length dress of blissful mauve satin with delicate rose embroidery on the bust. Instead of laces in the back, there was only a discreet zipper, and instead of substantial sleeves to cover her shoulders and elbows, there were only flimsy wings of gauzy fabric, leaving her upper arms barely draped in sheer porcelain blue.

The dress was more shapely than her others, yet by some mysterious modern magic, it also felt more free. Carmen was quite convinced that no stockings were necessary to wear with this dress, so Esme went barelegged for the first time that week.

She still refused to wear shoes on her feet.

Carmen laughed at the eccentric wish, but did not bother forcing Esme into a pair of slippers to match.

Esme thanked her new friend for the generous addition to her wardrobe, promising that tonight would not be the last time she would wear it. Carmen got a pretty little gleam in her eye when Esme made her promise.

In the sweet Spaniard's opinion, Esme could never possibly look more perfect. Now, Carmen said, all they had to do was wait until the men returned to get three more opinions.

Esme's heart fluttered thinking of what those opinions might be. One in particular would be the deal breaker for her...

Carmen seemed to know what she was thinking, and Esme was growing tired of hiding the obvious truth. She came very close to confiding in Carmen, but stopped herself too many times. To share her feelings for Carlisle with another woman would feel too much like a betrayal. Not only that, but Esme still did not know Carmen well enough to be sure she didn't have a tendency to gossip.

So she kept her lips sealed for the remainder of the evening, instead offering to let Carmen see all of her latest paintings and show off her sketchbook. One thing led to another rather quickly, and before long they were both finishing the unfinished work Esme and Carlisle had started in refurnishing the upstairs library. For an hour more they enjoyed each other's company, organizing and moving shelves around until Esme heard a most delightful interruption.

There was music downstairs.

"Edward must have come home early from their little outing," Carmen said, glancing out the window at the dark night.

"It sounds that way," Esme remarked, moving closer to the door. "He usually only listens to that old gramophone when he's sad."

Carmen looked a little concerned. "Maybe you should go check on him."

"I think I will. Do you mind?"

"No, not at all, dear," she whispered, gesturing to the door. "Take your time. I'll just finish adjusting these shelves."

Esme smiled sympathetically as she thanked Carmen one more time and closed the door behind her.

The soft, slightly scratchy sound of a gramophone teased Esme's ears as she headed down the dark hallway. When she reached Edward's music room, she pulled open the doors, expecting the boy to be seated by the window, listening to his records.

Instead she found Carlisle in the place where Edward normally sat.

He looked so sad that she felt an urgent need to leave at once, but he had already turned his head to regard her entry.

"I thought you'd be out with the others," she said softly.

His eyes glittered distantly as a shadow passed over his face. "I wanted to come home before darkness fell."

_Before darkness fell..._ Did everything he said have to come out sounding so romantic?

"Oh." She looked down at the floor, self-consciously patting down the flowing mauve skirt of her new dress. "Wasn't Edward upset?"

"I think he's enjoying spending time with someone other than me for a change. He and Eleazar have always gotten along well," Carlisle chuckled strangely. "I was a bit envious when we first visited Alaska. Anything Edward wanted to do included Eleazar's company instead of mine. Edward was still getting used to me then, and I'd say he's still getting used to me now."

An expected smile crossed Esme's lips as she approached the window.

"As an adolescent, I'd say that is natural behavior on Edward's part...and only more solid proof that you are indeed his _father._"

Carlisle smiled grudgingly up at her, and she felt a bright flutter inside her chest. Her eyes flicked to the rotating gramophone, surprised to hear the strings soften for the accompaniment of an operatic female soprano.

"This is beautiful music," Esme said mildly. "Where is it from?"

"Giacomo Puccini's _Madame Butterfly_," Carlisle answered. "I went all the way back to Europe in 1904 to see its premiere in Milan."

Esme couldn't help but smirk as she listened to the bold lyrics. "Let me guess, it's a romantic tragedy."

"You know your Italian," Carlisle said, impressed.

"No, I can just tell from the way she sings it."

His eyes sparkled with amusement and something vaguely like admiration.

"Come sit with me."

It was the most innocent request, yet it set her body alight with the most unimaginable warmth.

As she stepped over his feet to make her way to the empty chair, she noticed his lack of shoes and grinned impishly. "You seem to have forgotten your shoes, Doctor."

He looked down quickly as she mentioned it, his face bashful but amused. "Hmm, so I have. Your habit of frolicking about the house barefoot must be rubbing off on me."

As he said this, he gently nudged her own bare foot with his, a surprisingly intimate touch of skin that nearly caused Esme to lose her balance as she stepped around his knees. He chuckled furtively as she let out a light gasp, his gentle humor putting her at ease as she settled into the chair across from his.

"No candles this evening?" she teased, searching the room with exaggerated turns of her head.

His eyebrows lifted in recognition. "Thank you for reminding me." He scooted forward in his chair to reach for the case of matchsticks he kept beneath the coffee table. "I found an old candlestick in one of the cabinets while we were clearing out the study the other day. I forgot to show it to you," he said excitedly as he stood up. "I'll go get it."

In a flash he left the music room only to return a second later with a thin wax candle in one hand and an elaborate silver candlestick in the other.

"It's beautiful," Esme observed, reaching up to let her fingers wander over the engraved birds and ivy that decorated the wide silver base.

"Isn't it?" he agreed, setting it down on the table. "I polished it just this morning. I'm not even sure where I acquired it in the first place."

"One of the many wonderful things about spring cleaning – you find things you didn't even know you had," she said with a smirk.

They both chuckled.

She watched as Carlisle settled back into the chair across from her, his hands easily twisting the candle into place in preparation to light it. Just as his fingers went to reach for the box of matches, Esme felt a strange need to participate in the lighting of this candle.

"I'll light it," she offered before he could do it himself. With a delicate smile, he selected a single match from the box and placed it on her open palm.

She swallowed hard as she leaned closer to the candle in the center of the table, suddenly very aware of how the weak fabric of her dress seemed to flutter and move around her without even a breeze to disturb it. The sheer sleeves tickled her skin, teasing her with the knowledge that even in the dim room Carlisle's eyes were surely able to see every inch of skin that lay beneath.

She was somehow able to keep her hands from trembling as she struck the match and touched the flame to the fresh wick of the candle. As the fire grew from a pinpoint ember to a glowing golden teardrop, she could not help thinking in the back of her mind that there was something mysteriously sexual about the act of lighting a candle, most especially while a man was watching.

But maybe it was all in her head.

Carlisle was juxtaposed perfectly behind the standing candle, breathing hard as he watched her strike the match and touch the small orange spark to the wick. The flame awakened by her bidding, dancing eagerly as it rejoiced in its birth. Carlisle's eyes dropped slowly to the spectacle, and Esme's hand retreated, letting him hypnotize himself for a while. And if it were not just her imagination, the tiny tongue of fire seemed to dart more enthusiastically under his watchful gaze.

"So how many operas have you been to?" she asked him, hoping to shift easily into conversation after their tense start.

"Quite enough," he said with a rough little laugh.

"I don't believe I've ever been to any high arts productions in my time," she mentioned pointedly.

He grinned, knowing clearly the purpose of her remark. "We shall be sure to amend that in the near future."

"I can just imagine Edward's enthusiasm."

"He is a lover of music if I've ever seen one."

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she asked, leaning back in her chair with a dreamy glance up at the ceiling. "The way he's so passionate about it?"

A pause.

"It is."

"Has he always been that way?"

"The very first time I heard him play the piano was when we moved into this house." Carlisle's golden eyes drifted reminiscently to the concert grand in the corner of the room. "He hadn't even cared to open the lid of that piano for weeks, having no desire to play. Then one night he heard me thinking about the symphony I'd seen in Florence seventy years ago, and he was inspired to recreate the music he'd heard in my mind on the piano."

His eyes laved fondly over the instrument in the corner, no doubt watching the very scene over again in his memory. "I'd never heard Edward so much as speak of music before then. He hadn't even remembered that he was a pianist in his life. But all it took was that one melody, and he instantly remembered every song he'd ever learned in one night. It was remarkable."

"The way our memory works is so confounding," Esme said in a low voice as her eyes wandered back to him. "That reminds me of something I wanted to tell you."

"Hm?"

"I remembered something else from my childhood this evening."

Carlisle leaned forward in interest, forearms resting on his knees as he cocked his head to look into her face.

His eyebrows raised in silent inquiry and she continued, "My housekeeper used to braid my hair when I was young."

"Bethany," he murmured beneath his breath. The sound of another woman's name sounding so wistful on Carlisle's tongue sent Esme's heart into a flurry of jealous rage.

"Who?" she demanded, trying to keep her voice steady and disinterested.

"Your housekeeper – that was her name," he explained innocently. "Bethany."

"Oh!" Esme nearly laughed in her utter relief while Carlisle looked on, mildly confused.

"Is that what _this_ is all about, then?" he asked with a disarming grin as he reached over to lightly tug on the end of her braid.

"You noticed?" She smiled coyly.

"Of course I noticed," he said softly. "You've never braided your hair before. Did Carmen do it?"

"Yes."

"It's...befitting."

Esme raised a not-so-skeptical eyebrow. "You think so?"

A most disarming smile spread across his strong ivory cheeks. "Ask anyone."

"Thank you."

"And...the dress as well?" Carlisle asked after clearing his throat, his voice small.

Esme's eyes fell to the sensual fabric draped around her body. "I know it isn't exactly my style, but Carmen did bring it for me, so I thought I'd try it on…just for tonight."

In her peripheral she could see his hand reach forward to grip his knee.

"It looks lovely on you."

His voice reminded her of the way the waves on the lake sounded after a storm.

Her stomach flipped as she smiled appreciatively at the compliment. "Thank you, Carlisle."

Simply putting his name on the end of the sentence was enough to heighten the heat in the room. It was amazing how something so simple could change the dynamic of the conversation so drastically. It made her response twice as heavy, twice as meaningful, and twice as intimate.

She looked up to catch his eyes, terrified for the moment when he would lock gazes with her. But it never came. He was already distracted by something else.

Esme self-consciously tugged the end of her silky braid while Carlisle reached over to adjust the gramophone, allowing the slow strings of a waltz Edward sometimes played on the piano to fill the room.

"Did you dance often when you were growing up?"

Carlisle's unexpected question made her breath catch in the back of her throat. She looked to him quickly, surprised to see his eyes fixed on her hands as she obsessively petted the end of her braid.

She hastily tore her hands away and placed them in her lap. "I... I can't remember," she lied.

Carlisle shifted in his seat, his legs straightening out and torso stretching slightly as if he were preparing to stand. "I'm sure as a debutante you did."

"A...a debutante?" she repeated distantly as she watched him at last rise from his chair, the beginnings of a timid smile evident on his lips.

Esme suddenly felt a lovely little knot tie itself in the middle of her stomach.

He looked twice as tall in the darkness, and it took all of two steps for him to be right beside her where she sat, staring confusedly up at him. "I don't even know if I _was_ a debutante."

"I certainly hope you were," he whispered with a note of teasing scandal, "because I'm about to ask you to dance."

With that, he lay his hand down, palm outstretched and open on the arm of the chair in which she sat, glued to her seat with her eyes wide as saucers.

"Right here?" she hissed, nearly choking on her heart which had risen halfway up her throat.

"We could use the ballroom, but thanks to you the walls still smell a bit too strongly of fresh paint," he reasoned with a wry smile.

She shook her head at his teasing and looked down at her lap.

"Do you think it awkward?" he asked tentatively, drawing his fingers in slightly over his palm to cover his invitation. Her head snapped up, afraid that she had offended him with her shyness.

"No, not at all," she lied, standing up shakily in front of him. "I'd love to try it."

Her eyes barely came to level with his chin, he was so very much taller than her. He smiled easily and re-offered her his right hand as the waltz conveniently shifted to another key. Her eyes fell on the smooth white curve of his thumb where a streak of blue ink had smeared from his journal. It gave his open palm an almost vulnerable look.

She could not help but bring it to his attention.

Her fingertip gently traced the faint blue streak. "You've been taking notes again?" she teased.

She looked up quickly to see him swallow, the muscles in his neck tensing as he stared at the telltale mark. Self-consciously, he brought his other hand over to briefly cover the blue stain as he spoke bashfully, "Oh... So often I forget it is there."

Esme smiled in kind understanding. "It's not a wonder. You write so much."

He looked inexplicably embarrassed by this remark. "A year ago, Edward had taken to calling it 'the writer's bruise'."

Esme laughed softly, having nothing but fond eyes for the faint blue stain on her doctor's hand.

"Allow me to wash it first—" he pleaded as he began to withdraw his proffered hand, turning his head longingly towards the door.

But before he could move, she took hold of his wrist, forcing him to stand still. Carefully, she coaxed his protective hand away with a reassuring push to reveal the ink stain again. "It doesn't bother me."

He would never know that, in that moment, she had thought that small blue mark to be the most beautiful part of him.

His face was slightly bewildered as she willingly guided his stained right hand toward her waist. To her dismay he still tried to pull away before he could touch her, albeit more reluctantly this time.

"But the ink – it may ruin your new dress," he warned, his tone of the low, insincere sort.

"I love the color blue." She smiled in reassurance. Firmly and decisively, she tucked his hand against her waist.

He winced affectionately as his skin made contact with the fine gauzy fabric, but she was still smiling up at him without a care in the world as to the state of her clothing. All thoughts of what color it would be when he lifted his hand fluttered straight out of her mind as soon as he made contact. His hand was still warm, no doubt from his impassioned writing. A fierce chill cut through her midriff at the thought.

Taking swift advantage of their heightened closeness, Carlisle swept her free hand into his empty one and laced their fingers together. It almost made her jump, how strong and certain that hand felt.

Her left hand tremulously made its way up to his shoulder, and suddenly she could feel the confidence draining from her as she was forced face to face with him in the slow waltz.

In her mind it was hardly a waltz at all. They had approached the dance so gently that there was barely enough rhythm by which to guide their footsteps from the place where they stood. The music drifted comfortably around them like a protective ribbon of pleasant chords and calming strings, and they moved as if they were floating in deep water – effortlessly, dreamily.

She could have easily imagined beforehand how glorious it would be – dancing with a compulsive compassionate – and yet every speculation she'd made about the act didn't even come close to what it felt like in real life. Having his hand wrapped around her waist was such a heart-wrenchingly wonderful feeling. She noticed that Carlisle did not just hold his hand stiffly in place while they turned in slow circles; instead his fingers were delightfully restless, almost kneading her through the fabric while he held her. His grasp was dynamic and curious, as if he were feeling her while blindfolded, trying to decipher through touch alone what it was that he held. He used every one of her breaths as an excuse to shift the placement of his hand on her waist, sliding up then down, pressing firmly then gently, then inching closer around her back. Sometimes his thumb would twitch when she altered her grip on his shoulder, and the motion tickled her unexpectedly, causing her stomach to seize with a sensation of surprise.

There was so much to focus on, so many little details begging her for attention. And while she should have approached her situation feeling overwhelmed and intimidated, she simply went along with it and let herself enjoy the flood of sensations all at once. She did not give much thought to anything. Her ears were open to the music, and her eyes were fixed contentedly on Carlisle's neck, watching the small golden cross as it shimmered behind his collar.

"It feels...melancholy," Esme said quietly, with all the expected awkwardness of one who felt obligated to start a conversation. "The music, I mean."

"Yes, I suppose it does," he murmured thoughtfully as the sweet major chords flowed grudgingly onward.

His eyes pooled with dark, rusty colors as they settled somewhere below her neck. She had the faint suspicion that he might have been looking at her breasts, and her stomach took a lovely dip at the thought.

Experimentally, she took in a deeper breath and let the fabric of her dress expand slightly along with her bust. Immediately he adjusted his stance, but his gaze did not move. Perhaps he was only lost in a daydream.

Esme felt herself growing a bit dizzy. "Is it just me, or does it seem as if the room just got darker?"

His eyes flicked up momentarily to glance at the table behind them.

"The candle is dying down," he informed her in a slightly ragged voice, his moon-pale countenance brooding in the darkness. His eyes returned to hers at last, showing a quiet kind of hunger that comforted her as much as it made her want to shudder.

"Oh."

A soothing silence settled in the newly darkened room, relieving the pressures of light's harsh gaze. Even candlelight, while subtle, could still reveal so much. In the dark, it was easier to hide.

The music drifted around them, swirling and tangling, then softening, pushing them ever so carefully together for the dance. Carlisle was clearly familiar with the song because his body was able to move with the music perfectly, becoming one with the sounds.

They did not keep their gazes locked, but both pairs of eyes were prone to wander about the room with a feigned curiosity. With all their wandering, their eyes naturally happened to meet with the other's on a happy accident. During such a moment, they would acknowledge the meeting of their gazes with an exchange of fond, precariously sly smiles. Each time it happened, Esme struggled to suppress a vicious wave of heat from sweeping through the center of her body. But when she was locked in the sensual embrace of her dancing partner, the center of her body was no longer where it should have been.

While dancing, the center of one's body became the hips.

It startled her when she noticed just how close their hips were to one another. For such a prolonged period of time, it was almost agonizing. What she found to be all the more baffling was that although Carlisle was a good head taller than her, his pelvis somehow miraculously happened to match hers in parallel alignment.

She lowered her eyes in the guise of looking to check the position of her feet, but really she was staring at his lap, trying not gulp when she noticed just how near he was. Just another few inches and their laps would be pressed against each other...

Her eyes guiltily lifted, every bone in her body trembling in its place as she somehow managed to remain calm. Combating the feelings with a gentle aggression, she affectionately squeezed his shoulder and smiled amiably up at him.

His focus was drifting like a rescue bottle out at sea. The message hidden inside the bottle was unclear to her...until he spoke.

"I've been desperately missing our nights spent together in my study," he murmured at long last, his warm breath ghosting across her forehead, "...when we could be alone."

Like a man inebriated by a strong wine, every one of his words suddenly seemed like a confession.

"I miss free-writing, and watching you sketch, and reading books to you... I miss it," he repeated, as if trying to make her hear something deeper.

Either this or he was trying to get her to admit that she missed it too.

"So do I," she confessed truthfully, before a deviant little giggle broke the barrier of her well-sealed lips.

The deep, soft timbre of his chuckling shuddered through her. "We're speaking about this as if it's something sinful."

"I just noticed that," she whispered back with a grin, still devoted to their furtive charade.

"It isn't as if we aren't allowed to still do it with guests in the house," he whispered, and his words, taken out of context, sounded gloriously inappropriate.

"Hmmm. True. But it wouldn't feel right, somehow."

He nodded slowly in agreement. "Part of me wants to keep it a secret from everyone else."

"So do I... But it's silly. It isn't as if we're breaking any rules by writing and reading together..."

He raised his eyebrows. "No, of course not. We shouldn't feel ashamed of that."

"It's not that I feel ashamed, per se..."

"Neither do I," he said, quickly, softly.

"It's more like..."

"I want it to stay this way..."

"Hidden."

"Just between us."

Carlisle's final three words clung to the air, sweet and fragile as a distant chime in the song that carried their dance. They held each other close as they basked in the quiet wonder of their mutual wish, each having contributed soft-spoken fragments to complete a single, secretive promise.

Their eyes locked, like two golden clasps that linked the ends of a bracelet, unbreakable yet delicate. In turn, they exchanged equally clandestine smiles in the darkness, hardly aware that the waltz had weakened to accommodate the subtle shift in mood.

The deep peace that had enveloped them so smoothly suddenly lifted as Esme recalled Carmen's presence just one floor above. Her fingers subconsciously gripped the sleeve of her dance partner as she cast a frantic glance at the ceiling, worried that her house guest would be miffed at having to finish redecorating the library by herself.

"Do you think Carmen can hear us?" Esme asked Carlisle, too quietly for any other vampires to hear. "She's right upstairs."

Not a smudge of worry tainted his handsome face. "Not if we speak quietly enough."

His voice settled to the lowest register, and like warm water, it sent an overgrown garden of spring flowers bursting inside Esme's stomach. Her head tilted instinctively toward the music room door, concerned that they may have had more than one eavesdropper in their midst by now.

"I think she'll hear us anyway," she warned.

Her heart jumped as she felt her doctor's lean fingers graze against her chin, turning her head back around to face him.

"She'll know when not to listen," he assured in a heavy whisper, a private fire in his confident golden eyes.

His hand returned to Esme's waist, fitting into the curve so tightly and perfectly, as if it had found its true home. Esme looked down coyly, pleased with the sight of two nude pairs of feet shifting gracefully on the soft carpet. She shyly allowed her foot to brush against his while stepping forward, even more pleased that no apology was needed for the intentional mistake.

She knew Carlisle didn't mind in the least.

There should have been nothing inherently romantic in dancing. At its barest form, it was an innocent enough activity, not intended to ignite passion in the partners who participated. All it required was the subtle motion of one's body against that of another, in time with the soft sounds of music. Their bodies did not even have to touch if they didn't prefer.

Obviously _they _preferred to touch.

With each passing second it seemed, their bodies were coming closer, though logically there should have been no space left between them long ago. Their chests met with a soft clash of cotton fabric and covered muscle. Esme found herself pleasantly trapped against her doctor, afraid that shifting the slightest bit would cause her breasts to brush provocatively against his chest. Not wanting to risk such an accident, she contented herself to remain still in his arms, her head finally coming to rest on his shoulder.

"I wonder what it would be like to dance every night," she whispered, her voice muffled against the fabric of his shirt.

"What a romantic notion," he remarked playfully. His words rumbled softly against her from where her cheek rested on him. A note of timidity settled into his voice as he continued, "If I'm being honest, I think I'd grow tired of it and long for something different."

His hand slid slightly further along her back.

"It depends on what kind of dancing we would be doing," she murmured, feeling as if she could fall asleep in his arms.

His fingers gently pressed on the base of her spine.

"What other kind of dancing is there?" His voice was slow and almost too deep to be heard, loaded with unspoken implications.

Esme's breath caught in her throat. "I...don't know..."

But this was a lie. There were oh so many unspoken ways their bodies could move together. Dancing was just a fair, gentle word to describe those unspoken movements.

His fingers loosened around her waist. "What is the matter?" he asked.

"Hm?"

"You've stopped moving," he observed quietly.

Suddenly Esme realized that she was frozen to her place, her feet standing still between both of his.

"Oh," she uttered pathetically, still unable to get her feet to budge. "I don't know. I feel strange."

Admitting her feelings was so new a concept that she almost regretted saying them out loud. But her honesty was so invigorating, and it caused the most beautiful changes in his voice.

"Strange?" he repeated the word, so quiet and gentle, but secretly demanding. "How?"

She lifted her head from his shoulder and bravely met his eyes. She tucked her lip beneath her teeth for a moment as she thought of how to describe it.

"You know the feeling you get when you stand too close to a fire?"

Something in his eyes rippled like waves of sun over the lake as he nodded.

"That is how I feel right now. I feel a little bit like...like I need to run away before I burn..."

His hand on her back tightened firmly as if he were concerned she might act on her fear, and she released a delicate whimper.

"Would you really run away from me, Esme?" he asked, heartbroken and glassy-eyed.

"No," she whispered fervently. "I don't want to run away from _you_."

"Then what is it you're running from?" His words, so soft, seemed to fade into the air like smoke.

"I don't know," she sighed, confounded. "Something else. Something I don't yet understand, I think."

The music drew to its close with a final arpeggio, and the gramophone was left scratching softly in the background, urging them to speak again and fill the silence.

"There are many things I do not understand either, Esme," he acknowledged gently, his head tilting just the slightest bit as he said it.

Her stomach knotted in defiance. "Yet we accept them without question."

His face moved infinitesimally closer to hers, his eyebrows lifting by the smallest margin. "I have done so all my life," he whispered fluidly, and she perhaps never heard his voice sounding more delicate than it did in that moment.

"I wish it were not so."

His manner of speaking was rubbing off on her yet again. As was the ink from the fingers on his right hand.

"Then perhaps you will be the first to change it."

He bent forward to nuzzle her forehead with a heartbreakingly gentle affection, his lips nearly grazing her skin as if by accident. But she swore she felt the smooth whisper of their touch as they passed across her brow, and the almost-feeling made the bones in her knees turn to dust.

His arms gripped her tighter as if he were aware of the wave of weakness that had overtaken her body. Their eyes locked deeply, full of a weighty understanding that this moment was not meant to last any longer than it already had. The pressing presence of other souls in the house demanded their attention, drawing them cruelly away from the peaceful cloud of privacy they had enjoyed, alone together, for however short a time.

But Carlisle did not let go of her until the sounds of Edward and Eleazar's pounding footsteps made it to the door. Once the front door was thrown open and jovial voices echoed in the hallway, his hands left her skin, his body moved away, and the comforting heat of his breath faded from her face.

One step away from her and she already felt the loss of that precious connection. It was nourishment being stolen away from her, a basic need to feed her desperate instincts to be near to him. She tamped down the urge to cry and stood tall, even as the notion of crumbling into the carpet seemed more appealing than moving on by her own strength.

Somehow in the midst of their melancholy departure, Carlisle managed a smile. An emotionally torn, understanding, empathetic smile that revealed so much. He felt the same regret that she felt, and he was just as sad to lose this moment as she was.

As the lone candle flickered restlessly behind them, he uttered one final whisper before leaving the room to rejoin his guests.

"Thank you for the dance."

Once alone, Esme bowed her head in the darkness, her curious eyes peeking down at her waist to find a distinct blue smear of ink where his hand had rested against her dress.

Now, she thought, the dress looked perfect.

* * *

**A/N: **

_**Read Carlisle's POV of this chapter in Behind Stained Glass "Chapter 33: Leaving His Mark".**_


	55. The Final Symbol

**Chapter 55:**

**The Final Symbol**

* * *

Carmen and Eleazar of the Denali clan had been the most pleasant company Esme could have asked for. In their presence, everything felt warm and comfortable. Time passed quickly and conversation was smooth and effortless. The more she got to know them, the more she liked them. Suddenly, just having them for a day seemed like far too short a time for them to visit.

When it finally came time for them to return to their home in Alaska, Esme was in a dreary mood while they said their goodbyes. She thought it a rather humorous contrast to how she had been feeling just before she met them for the first time. _All those nerves for nothing_. Now she felt like she was losing a pair of good friends. They promised to visit again, and even to bring along their sisters the next time, which did not merit a pleasant reaction from Edward. Despite his negative opinions of Tanya, Esme found that she was looking forward to meeting the other three Denalis one day.

Carmen and Eleazar left the way they came, hand in hand without a care in the rain. They paused at the end of the road to wave back at Esme through the trees where she watched them disappear with a sigh.

The drafty hallways felt unusually quiet shortly after their departure. Having two less people in the house really did make a difference. The silence felt like a pest as Esme lingered on the front porch staring out at the misty morning. All the while, her thoughts were far away, cascading back to the dance she and Carlisle had shared the night before.

His behavior had left her pleasantly stunned. His confessions of wanting to spend more time alone with her, for one, had been unexpected and incredibly forward. She wondered if he would invite her to come back into his study and stay for the remainder of the following evening and well into the next morning again. Restlessly, her heart yearned for another private waltz with him sometime when the house was empty. She imagined things might turn out a little differently without Carmen upstairs...

But even in the absence of his friends, Carlisle's strange behavior persisted. His quiet nature had never been a bother to Esme before, but when his eyes were obviously racing with thoughts, she began to grow concerned over his prolonged silence. Hoping to have him open up to her again, she invited him to walk with her through the gardens a few hours after Carmen and Eleazar left. The mist had not yet cleared, but the temperature was comfortable enough that they were able to enjoy a peaceful afternoon outside before Carlisle had to leave for the hospital.

His smile was noticeably crooked when she asked him to come walk with her. From his eyes alone she could tell that he was very aware that she was not asking him to accompany her out of fear that she would lose control in the event of a passing human. This was a sole desire for company, specifically _his _company. And Carlisle knew that. It showed on his face.

He closed the books he had opened on his desk, stood up, and followed her without question into the backyard garden. As he walked down the porch steps, she noticed him untucking his shirt. It was something he did more often when they were around each other; she supposed it was his own discreet way of signifying that he was intent to drop all formalities when they were together. It was meant to make her feel more at ease, but it still made her chest flutter a little whenever he did it.

No more was he portraying the intelligent doctor, or the wise philosopher, or the scholarly writer, or even the sensual sculptor. He was simply a man, with his hands in his pockets and his shirt untucked.

But to Esme, Carlisle's appearance could never be simple no matter how hard he tried. In fact it seemed the simpler he tried to look, the more complexities she found when she looked at him. The vest he was wearing that morning did not match the shirt he wore beneath it. It was an off shade of green in comparison with the mild mint color of his tunic. The very bottom button of his vest was undone, causing the ends of it to flutter open in the wind. The underside of the fabric was paler than the outside, and it looked softer to the touch. It was distracting.

He was wearing shoes today, even though she was still barefoot. But the way he walked was slightly awkward, as if he were wading through an invisible pond of water as he followed alongside her. She was the understood leader as they walked, choosing which path to take through the intricate gardens. Usually Carlisle was the leader when they walked together, but today things were different...in more ways than one.

She led him along a familiar route through the hedges and around the statues and fountains, making remarks about which she was still in the process of restoring and which she would like to keep as they were. He nodded and smiled and replied with varied hums and oh's to most everything she said, but throughout it all his eyes seemed so far away.

Just as his silence was beginning to irk her, he finally spoke with a remotely blatant intention behind his words.

"You seemed to be getting along quite well with Carmen," he said.

"I admit it was nice to have another woman around for a while," Esme replied.

His footsteps grew slightly firmer against the cobblestone path. "How did you like her?"

"Oh, she couldn't have been lovelier." Esme glanced up at him discreetly to see his reaction as she added, "I was a bit jealous, though."

He blinked quickly and turned to look down at her, unable to believe that he'd heard her correctly. "Pardon?"

"Jealous," she repeated matter-of-factly.

"Jealous?" He made the word sound delicious.

She looked at him pointedly but didn't clarify.

Carlisle raised his eyebrows as if coming to a sudden realization. "Ah, because she can travel the country freely without worrying over blood-lust. Is that it?"

Esme cleared her throat and looked down at her feet in shame. "Not exactly."

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously as she walked ahead of him. "Then why?"

"She's far prettier than I am."

Carlisle nearly choked on his own venom.

Esme turned around abruptly to face him in the middle of their path, right beside the fountain in the center of the garden.

"Don't you think she's beautiful?" she challenged.

Carlisle looked uncomfortable at being put on the spot. His eyes darted around frantically for a moment as if searching for a reasonable response in thin air. "Well, she is a very..._kind _woman."

Only Carlisle would twist such a question into something so innocent.

"Physically, Carlisle," Esme emphasized impatiently. "Physically."

This time he looked even more upset at having to answer.

"Ehm... She is the wife of another man, and I don't..."

"For God's sake, Carlisle!" Esme laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. "Can you not admit to finding beauty in a woman?"

He looked winded, shocked, mildly terrified, and agape, his eyes pearly and oblivious. Knowing she was the one responsible for that expression made Esme feel sickeningly guilty.

Perhaps she'd been a _bit _too harsh with him.

If only she'd known what was next to come out of those lips.

"I find beauty in _you_."

If she had thought Carlisle's expression strange before, it was nothing compared to the look he wore now. He looked vaguely like he'd just finished first place in a week-long marathon. Proud, breathless, a bit ill, but in an inexplicably beautiful way. There was a strange, fragile sort of energy brewing in his eyes, as they darkened just a touch on the edge.

"You're just saying that to calm me down," she immediately accused. What else could she possibly say to him?

"Why would I be dishonest about something like that?" he asked in his soft, morally smothering voice.

"I don't know," she mumbled insincerely. "To make me happy?"

His expression grew slightly stern then, which surprised her. "I must say, it's not like you to become so bothered over something as insignificant as appearances," he said darkly. Even as the breeze gently ruffled his blond hair, he did not soften at the touch.

Esme stiffened, ready to defend herself against him, but thinking the better of it, she allowed herself a moment to cool her frustration before saying something she would regret.

"I don't know what came over me," she sighed apologetically, raising a hand to knead her forehead. "I've been feeling a lot of strange emotions lately. I suppose it's just... I haven't been around another female in such a long time. And Carmen is the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life."

Carlisle was disturbingly silent.

Esme chuckled bitterly. "But listen to me – you must have seen _hundreds_ of female vampires in your years – I'm sure each one was more like a goddess than the last."

She crossed her arms and turned to face the fountain, watching the tiny birds that had gathered on the rim to dip their beaks in the water. Carlisle's silence dragged on, filling a void in the pit of her stomach with heavy regret.

Jealousy was perhaps the most irrational of all grievous sins. Even _she_ could admit this.

"Esme, how can you compare yourself to women you've never even seen or spoken with before?" Carlisle questioned, always the notorious voice of reason in any conversation.

"We women are petty like that sometimes." It was the only response she could think of that did the least to damage her pride.

Carlisle was not convinced. "You're anything but petty, Esme." His voice was trembling ever so slightly with delectable anger.

Her skin felt hot. "Then why do I feel this way?" she demanded, her eyes pleading with the sky. "Like I'm always wishing to be everyone but myself?"

When he next spoke, his voice was distressingly close behind her. "I don't know, but you should never wish for such a thing." His tone softened until it sounded as if he were speaking to a sleeping child. "If anything, everyone else should be wishing they were more like _you_."

She sniffed. "You're the one everyone wants to be like, Carlisle. Our whole town admires you. There are hundreds of people all across the globe that once knew your name. No more than four people now know that I even exist."

"But those four people who _do _know you can see that you _are_ a beautiful person," he said in a stronger voice, rich with reassurance.

Then he took her hand and gently forced her to turn around, bringing her face to face with him. "But if I may be even more honest, your physical beauty _pales_ in comparison to the beauty of your heart." His eyes and voice were brimming with earnest sincerity. "By that alone I can safely say you are among the most beautiful vampires I've come to know."

She wondered if he could see the tears that lingered behind her frustratingly dry eyes. She wondered if he could hear the breath that had gotten caught just inside her throat. She wondered if he could hear the pulsing rhythm of her desire as it crept through her chest to rest beneath her heart.

He had done nothing more than claim acknowledgment of her inner beauty. It was an entirely innocent and even commendable act of kindness on his part. But it felt as if he had seized her by the waist, tossed her down on the grass, and forced her full of his sincerity and good sense until she came apart in his arms. It felt like he had raped her with his goodness.

Was her inner beauty truly the only beauty he was concerned with? Or was this just his way of proving to her that inner beauty was more important than outer beauty?

Deep down she knew the truth. She knew that outer beauty was just an illusion. But being around other vampires, and being exposed to the beauty their kind could exhibit played dangerous games with her vanity.

Carlisle was above that.

When she finally found her voice, she could think of no word that would make sense to say in that moment except for his name. So she said it. Softly, subconsciously.

"Carlisle."

The birds chirped contentedly at the sound, then fluttered away from their bath.

The doctor's eyes were fierce, yet weary in a way she could not understand. "You are beautiful, Esme. You are a beautiful woman with a beautiful heart. Don't make me remind you of that ever again."

He hadn't asked her. He'd commanded her.

But the true miracle was that he had, in some deep dark place,_ convinced_ her. And in the most startling gesture imaginable, he abruptly turned on his heel and left her to think on his fervently given compliments.

It was like something out of a strange novel, a moment she couldn't understand no matter how many times she replayed it in her mind. After a minute or two she gathered herself together and found him in the threshold of the front door with his jacket halfway on his arms, ready to leave for his shift.

The moment should not have been this powerful. Carlisle had called her beautiful before. He had said it so many times to her before, in so many different ways, using so many different words. But its effect was still astounding. This time she realized something new about the way he said those words. This time something made them feel like fire in her heart.

Her lips parted, like a dam bound to burst, and the words were free before she could even think to hold them back.

"I think you're the only person who has ever been sincere when you call me beautiful."

He stopped all motion immediately, letting his jacket wilt down his shoulders. His eyes were brilliantly petrified at her delicate outburst, but everything else about him was uncannily calm, even his voice.

"You are worth so much more than you give yourself credit for, Esme," he said sadly. "Sometimes I think you choose to be blind to that." He looked down at the floor, and his shoulders fell lower.

Esme's jaw followed suit.

Could he have taken her words so lightly? Had she not just told him he was the only person who had _ever called her beautiful?_ Or did Carlisle simply not regard the recognition of physical beauty as being so poignant?

"Did you hear what I said?" she asked, too frustratingly quiet to have sounded demanding as she intended.

His piercing eyes snapped up to meet hers. "Yes," he replied, the word instant and strong. "But I cannot understand how you could ever think someone to be insincere when they say you are beautiful."

Though his words were kind and gentle in their nature, the tone in which he said them was swift and dark, with an almost biting edge to it.

But in his eyes, his ever revealing eyes, she could see the shimmering evidence of a man torn between a cool facade and a passionate interior. He was angry at the injustice of her situation, and that anger had inflected his voice, but it could never touch his warming gaze. As he stared at her, he showed her the true intentions of his heart, the knee-weakening power of his care for her.

"Even as a young girl, you were radiant," he whispered. His voice sounded parched.

Oh, the things he said to her. She almost refused to believe they were true.

If she had any breath left in her, she would have at least managed a sigh. A most wonderful feeling had consumed her like a virus, blessing her body with a lovely sense of weightless fatigue.

"I feel like I have wings," she murmured with a giddy cross between a sob and a laugh, on the verge of incoherence.

He looked at first blatantly surprised by her revealing confession, as a flicker of sympathetic amusement colored the dimple on his right cheek. Then a deep expression of something like hunger embedded in his eyes, though it was sinfully fleeting.

"I hoped you would," he said softly, clearly pleased to have caused the coveted sensation in her. The fact that he was thrilled to have made her feel weightless was almost as delicious as the sensation itself. She could practically feel the tender heat of pride emanating from his body as he watched her step forward and grasp his jacket before he left.

"Hurry back?" she begged raspily against an incoming gust of wind.

As a dashing lock of blond fell into his golden eyes, he bowed slightly to nuzzle her forehead, a certain smile in his deep voice.

"I always do."

******-}0{-**

So many wonderful, strange, invigorating things were happening between them. One moment he was stern with her, forcing her to see things that she thought she could never see, helping her to learn things she never knew about herself; the next he was carrying her with his own two arms on a path she had never expected to follow.

It was so, so strange. She could think of no other word to describe it. Like a snowball rolling down an endless mountain, the feelings kept building, becoming heavier, harder to handle, harder to control. Momentum was gaining on her, chasing her down a slippery slope. She feared that one day everything would collide, and she would crash into him. No force on earth, no matter how strong, would be able to stop it.

They regarded one another as equals, but on the subject of a special balance. There was no point where one of them felt they had outwitted the other. Each of them had strengths the other did not possess, and each of them had weaknesses the other was all too willing to forgive. There were times when they beat around the bush, but there were also times – wonderful times – when they spoke honestly and openly with each other. Those times when they held nothing back, hid behind nothing, and spoke their hearts were the most addicting, the most strange, and the most liberating.

But for all their honesty, there was still something unspoken between them. It was as if they were both in some kind of trance, hovering around something special that just longed to be uncovered. There was something they still needed to find, and it seemed to call to them silently in their most troubled times. Perhaps a bit grudgingly, they began to nurse the need, to acknowledge that unnamed variable of their relationship. There arrived a point where it became painfully obvious to both of them, as if a cluster of fireflies had gathered around one object in the dark night. It was right under their noses, and yet neither of them had put a name to it.

All they could do was spend every waking instant together, feeding off of each other's tentative secrets and half-honest confessions.

It was lighthearted and genuine, the way they spoke now; almost completely carefree. For so long, Esme had always felt the need to be somewhat guarded while speaking with Carlisle, but this conversation felt so different. It had been changing for a while now, the way they responded to each other. Every word became more genuine, every laugh more enthusiastic.

Every night they fulfilled their needs, in his study, from six o' clock in the evening when Carlisle came home from work, to the next morning when the dawn broke like eagle's wings over the horizon.

They may as well have been married to each other in every sense of the word, apart from actual matrimony. This was no sacrament they were participating in, night after night, dawn after dawn. The days spilled into one another like dripping paint, midnight blue into shimmering gold, dotted with bright emerald green that marked the days when he was never at home. Soon, he would be taking the night shift again. As soon as the rain stopped falling and summer peeked around the corner, he would request it. She dreaded that day with all her might. She didn't want to give him up yet. Her nights wouldn't be complete without him.

He was her light in the darkness. He was her golden one, her hope, her shining beacon, her warmth when all else was cold. It sounded too powerful, even ridiculous in her ears when she said such things to herself, but it was the truth, and there was no turning on it.

He hadn't any clue that he meant so much to her. As he paced around his study in that comforting rhythm, his every move was like a drug, his every breath a shred of proof that he was an angel. Sometimes she had the urge to fall to her knees and kiss his feet and worship him. She blushed just thinking of it, feeling like a fool. But this was what he did to her. Tragically, he never knew it.

He was so good to her. So frustratingly, achingly good.

He even let her sit behind his desk.

It felt like breaking the rules until the day when he took her into his arms and let her share the seat with him. He was not only sitting close to her on sofas now, he was letting her share his throne.

It only became more and more strange every night.

She thought it was a little like they were having an affair, only because they treated it that way. It was a lot like making love, every night without fail. The way they fed off each other and confided in each other and kept each other warm. It was the same kind of regret they felt every morning when the clock sang sadly and told him to leave her.

They used those hours of nighttime for intimacy, for bonding, for becoming one without ever physically connecting.

As she'd thought a thousand times before, it was strange. So awfully, fantastically strange.

But they just kept on doing it, like it was an addiction. Like they would die if they ever failed to do it.

It was scary how close they had become in a matter of a few weeks. It had gotten to the point where Esme started thinking about things she had always wanted to say to him, and taking that initiative to finally say them.

She told him that she thought his hands were beautiful.

He smiled and accepted the compliment by asking her if she would like to draw them.

She finished four sketches of Carlisle's hands in under two hours.

Just that one comment had broken the ice. It was so easy to say things like that to him now. She wondered why she hadn't given it a chance before.

She thought of asking him – several times, in fact – if he realized that he mispronounced her name.

But then she thought if she were to tell him this, he would likely take it as a hint to change his pronunciation. And she didn't want him to change. She liked the way he mispronounced her name.

_Ess-may._

She loved it.

His voice was unrelentingly soft. An ancient English melody for her heart to hum along to.

He was saying it more often by the day, just as she was saying his name more often without holding back. It still thrilled her to hear her own voice saying it. And he would respond to it, every time she said it.

They were frustratingly close to each other; one could even say they were intimate. The things they spoke about were bordering that flush line of intimacy one might share with a soul mate. But at the end of the night they were still just friends; family members with conveniently unspoken roles.

Despite how comfortable they became in each others' presence, there seemed to be one underlying pulse keeping in touch with that familiar edge of nervousness. Esme hesitated to describe the feeling itself as "nerves" because it was really more pleasant than that. It was warm, slightly tremulous, but above all...right.

It felt right to be so close to Carlisle. She felt...complete.

With a wry, faraway smile, she studied him while he twirled the ink pen between his fingers, thinking of what to write about.

His eyes were like bourbon. His hair was tousled every which way, his shirt was wrinkled, and his right hand was smeared with blue ink.

He was disturbingly gorgeous like this – like a tortured angel caught in an endless nightmare. And somehow, even with the brisk lines of stress strewn across his forehead, he looked to be savoring this nightmare, gathering from it all its monstrosities while he could before it vanished from his mind. Still, she longed to wake him up.

Esme imagined Carlisle's inspiration to be a pillar of fire, spraying hot sparks all around that landed on his page in the form of words. She wondered if those words would burn her if she read them.

She thought she could smell the cinders... but it was just the candle.

"The flame went out again," she informed him loyally, as she had been doing all evening. He had been too absorbed to notice when the candles lost their light, so she graciously notified him when they did.

With a small smile tugging his lips, Carlisle lifted a new matchstick to the candle on his left and kindly raised it to share the fire with the candle on his right.

They'd done this several nights in a row now. Esme would pull up one of the cushioned chairs to the edge of his desk across from him, and she would stuff herself into it, swinging her legs over its plush arm with her head resting against the other in a casual cradle.

From here, she watched him while he wrote.

And he let her. Gladly.

_"Just pretend I'm not here," _she'd told him with a soft, merry smile.

But he never followed through.

His eyes were like fierce little lemon drops – they gave her a sweet sting when they met her gaze. Esme was riding waves of delicious uncertainty for when he would suddenly rise to meet her, head tilted just so to catch her watching him in the candlelight. She was throbbing with an unforgiving sea fever by the time the night met its end.

Sometimes he was the writer; sometimes he read the works of other men. Sometimes he read the works of God.

Sometimes Carlisle read out loud for Esme. Sometimes he read silently.

She didn't care what he was doing – reading or writing, or just sitting there with his stethoscope around his neck looking like Heracles turned doctor – she was ecstatic just to be watching him, just to have this invitation that never expired.

She loved when he read to her, from the Bible or any old storybook they happened to find on one of the shelves that night. She sometimes didn't even care to hear what the meaning behind the parable was, or how the story ended. It was all about the sound of his voice.

He told her legends and folklore from Norway, Japan, Ireland, and the Barbados. He recounted for her bedtime fairytales about everything romantic and rosy, and ghost stories about everything morbid and macabre. Once he even read her a book on the magical properties of herbs from Western India. Such an intriguing title she couldn't resist.

His voice was ointment on a warrior's wound. Sometimes she would listen to it, and her thoughts were like a stream trickling with green frogs and lily pads and cattails swaying in the breeze. Sometimes his voice pulled her away from the world, like the flyaway horse that came to children in their dreams. And when she grew weary from listening to what the words meant, her eyes were sanded by the dustman from shut-eye town.

He asked her once if she was sleeping, and she asked him if he'd ever seen a vampire sleep before.

He just chuckled and went back to reading.

He was remarkable when he was reading. But he was a vision when he was writing.

His eyes would widen on the ends, dilate and refuse to blink at all until every word was down and out. His breath beat in time with the scrape of his pen, and he became so _passionate, _and the trees in the window behind him were shivering as his hand swept over the page... and finally, the page was filled.

Esme found herself wondering what Carlisle wrote about when he looked like that. Did he write about iron glades, empty tombs, fantastical creatures like white-maned lions with leathery wings?

Would he ever consider sharing with her the gauze of madness upon his eyes as he made art with the common word?

Esme now understood some of the fascination she imagined Carlisle might have felt while he watched her paint. It was the same way they both watched Edward while he composed at the concert grand. She was stricken, through to her very heart, burning with wonder and questions and _what could he possibly be thinking _while he was writing?

It was like watching God create the world in five days instead of six. Even God rested on the seventh day, but Carlisle was never at rest. He was always doing _something, _even when it looked like he was doing nothing. In his mind, Esme knew, there were spirits and restless nights on southern rivers and devilish delights that longed to be wired into words for the pages in his journal.

His pages were empty, just as her canvas was empty. Slowly, surely, they were helping the other to fill these with colors, with words...

Once, Esme had let her curiosity get the best of her, and she'd peeked over the desk to see what he might have been writing on those empty pages.

The cryptic lines of a peacock blue foreign language taunted her for the briefest moment before he snapped the journal shut and asked her self-consciously if she could read Latin. She shook her head, and he opened the journal back up to the page he'd abandoned, resuming the feverish script full force with a discreet smile.

He was an infuriating puzzle.

Every night he provoked her more, prodding her mystified heart with the end of his faithful blue fountain pen. Every night she tried to tempt him into giving her little hints about what he wrote, but he never gave in. He was too clever to be fooled.

This night, though, he seemed more at ease with whatever he did behind the other side of the desk. She could see his thoughts winking behind his eyes, could see the flicker of an idea when the inspiration touched him gently on the temple.

He lifted the end of his fountain pen to his lip and tentatively pressed it into the charitable pink flesh.

"What are you writing?" she finally asked.

"I wasn't writing... Well, I had been for a while, but just now I was reading."

"Oh?" Her head perked up in interest. "What were you reading, then?"

"One of my newer books. Poetry."

He was smiling already, as if he knew she was going to ask him.

"Read me something," she demanded in an irrefutable whisper.

"Shall I read the poem that reminds me of you?" he offered just as quietly, his eyes sparkling with pretentious glee.

She allowed herself one half-second to be rightly stunned before her own insufferable eagerness won her over.

"Please."

If there was a poem that reminded Carlisle of _her, _she would not leave this earth without first hearing it recited from his lips.

"Very well," he consented all too willingly. "It's titled 'The Fly.'"

And then his voice did wonders.

_"How large unto the tiny fly_  
_Must little things appear:_  
_A rosebud like a feather bed,_  
_Its prickle like a spear;_

_A dewdrop like a looking-glass,_  
_A hair like golden wire;_  
_The smallest grain of mustard-seed_  
_As fierce as coals of fire;_

_A loaf of bread, a lofty hill;_  
_A wasp, a cruel leopard;_  
_And specks of salt as bright to see_  
_As lambkins to a shepherd."_

Her ears drank in the echoes of the words that lingered, the rhythmic pulse of the rhyme itself, and the British residue of his lulling tenor as he read for her. When he finally raised his eyes from the page, he looked partly amused, partly stunned – as if he truly were looking upon the very subject who had inspired that poem.

He looked like a schoolboy meeting Napoleon in the flesh after a year's worth of history lessons.

Esme giggled with pure, feminine, flattered delight. Finding it in her whimsical mood to be witty with him, she sighed. "I certainly hope you are hinting at my insatiable curiosity and not my diminutive size, Carlisle."

He broke into a generous bout of hard, healthy laughter. Her heart shook with the sounds, and when he finally calmed, the glitter of that joy was still frolicking in his gaze.

"Oh, those first few days were wondrous for you, weren't they?" he recalled fondly.

By her _first few days, _of course, he'd meant the days she had finally freed herself. The days she found the Truth in the brilliance of summer bursting around her. Senses abound, light beneath her feet, darkness trampled in every corner.

"Yes, they were." She tilted her head back against the chair cushions wistfully.

"I remember as I watched, wishing I could have had such an experience during my first days, exploring nature like that," he whispered sadly. "I never had the time to be fascinated by my senses after the transformation. I suppose I simply...adjusted to them after a time." His eyes drifted off. "Mostly I was just...afraid."

She watched pityingly as he pushed the poetry book aside and sat back in his chair.

"I still don't know how you did it alone," she marveled gently.

"The transformation itself is always the worst part," he told her. "I was so relieved when it finally ended. I'd feared I would be feeling that forever." He all but shuddered just at the thought.

"So did I," she confessed, letting the darker mood set in on their conversation with strange willingness and ease. Her mind was oddly ready to talk about such things now. After all, in this darkness, what secrets couldn't be said? "I remember seeing some strange things while the change was happening," she added suggestively.

They had both reached a certain understanding of sorts – a tentative comfort with this openness they had worked to achieve over some time now. Inevitably, Carlisle knew when the tone was fair for further questioning.

"Anything in particular?" he asked.

They were going to elaborate on the subject.

"Hmmm." She paused to think, even though she hadn't needed to think to remember it. "Well, there was something...a vision I had, just before I woke up…right before I remember seeing _you_ again," she began with a glance at his face to be sure he was still rapt with interest. "It was...a red blossom of some kind. It looked almost like it was trying to consume me. It was reaching for me. A strange rose..."

His head snapped a little bit, so quick she barely registered the motion. His eyes were wide and quietly wild, drinking in not only her expression but her words as well.

"Did you say a rose?"

He seemed so romantically disturbed by this that she almost refuted.

"Well, it_ could _have been a rose," she surmised, now worried that her haste in assuming its breed was somehow dangerously presumptuous. "It resembled a flower. It was bright red, and there were...petals."

"That _is _strange." Carlisle was baffled.

She sat upright in her chair then, and leaned in slightly over her side of the desk.

"What do you think it could mean?" The volume of her voice dropped secretively as if they were in a candlelit detective's quarters.

"Well, I don't know," he admitted with a quirk of one eyebrow. "The final symbol is different for all of us."

"Final symbol?" she repeated the phrase, just as hushed.

"Yes, the final hallucination – the very last image we see before we wake from the transformation."

"All vampires see something like this?"

"All whom I've spoken to, yes," he confirmed.

She couldn't help but ask. "What did _you _see?"

"Oh, ehm..." He mumbled a little bit, his eyes uncertain.

"You don't have to tell me if you would rather not," she added hastily, dearly afraid she'd upset him by prying.

"No, I... It's just that I've never told anyone," he admitted softly. "Edward is the only one who knows."

He met her eyes sheepishly for a pointed moment, and then he looked back to the book on the desk.

She bowed her head. "I understand."

And she truly did.

His breath was quiet and shy for a while as he stared blankly down at the open pages.

"Read me more poetry...please," she suggested gently as she sank back into her armchair.

He smiled to himself and turned the next page.

For hours his voice lulled her into a rest of fond contentment. She was lying in a hammock of lovely sounds and twirls of the tongue. And the way his lips moved as he said these words... By God, it was proof that drops of heaven had somehow been blended with his venom.

"Now read it in Italian," she ordered teasingly when he had finished.

And he did.

She would not have asked him so frequently if she had not been so disastrously fascinated by the language itself. But to have Carlisle speak the language in _his _voice... She was almost unable to see past the stars in her own eyes.

His words were liquid romance – the flow so smooth, dotted by sparkling points where his words would catch with a roll of the 'r' or a tap of the tongue against his teeth.

His lips would quirk into a handsome half-smile, as if there were something deeply amusing about foreign speech; as if he knew just how he affected her.

"What was that last poem about?" she asked shyly.

He chuckled. "If I'd read it in English, you would know, Bright Eyes."

She smiled crookedly and chanced a look at him from under her wavering lashes.

His face in the candlelight was startling, but so familiar now that she now hardly remembered what he would look like in any other lighting.

"Well you didn't read it in English, so tell me," she pressed eagerly.

He dipped his finger into the flame of the dying candle, and his eyes, though they had no reason to, sparkled mischievously.

"It is about a mermaid princess who must find and marry a merman to keep her kingdom."

Esme asked breathlessly, "Well, does she find him?"

Carlisle replied huskily, "Of course she does."

And the candle went out for the third time that night.

He lit the wick for the final time and read her more poems about the mermaid princess, this time in English so she would know if they ended happily.

The dawn would always creep in through the windows before Esme was ready to stop listening to him read. She would see it approaching slowly at first, tendrils of faint violet clouds weaving across the horizon behind him. In her mind, she cursed at them and begged them to let him finish. Sometimes the clouds took pity on her and let the rest of his melodious words drench her ears before they tied a knot around the rising sun.

Up it came, sparking a halo around his head from behind. It was a soft, pinkish halo.

She told him it was flattering, and he told her he could see the sunrise in her eyes.

She always made sure to face the window. He always made sure to _block _the window.

As the sun peeked through those windows, Carlisle conceded to close his books and tuck away his notes in their drawers. He would usually blow out the candles right about now as well, but this time he left the flame to flicker happily on, lifting his hand to protect it from dying for as long as possible.

"Carlisle?"

He said nothing to acknowledge her, but raised his eyes swiftly to meet hers – and this single, fluid gesture was unspeakably more intimate than if he had regarded her with a murmured, "yes?"

She swallowed hard. "Would you say that, lately, you've felt more comfortable talking with me about more...intimate subjects?"

"You think what we discuss in here is intimate?" The look in his eyes was so piercing, it felt like a javelin had just been tossed straight into her heart.

Her eyes lowered to the desk as she narrowed her brow in thought, determined not to let his stare distract her into speechlessness. "I think that the things we have discussed together have become more...personal as time wears on."

"What are you really asking me, Esme?" he inquired in a gentle voice.

Her eyes snapped up. "I want to know something."

His face was bold and bright. "Ask, and I shall answer."

_If only it were that easy._

She took a deep breath. "When you saw me...that night in the morgue..."

Everything about him shifted then as he brought a hand up to cradle his forehead, distress drawn over his eyes. But she had to continue, no matter how he'd reacted. She had promised herself that she would ask him, no matter what.

She waited until he had stilled his uncomfortable little movements before she continued softly, "What did you do? What _happened_? Did you just decide to...to run off with a dead woman's corpse, and—"

"Please try and understand, Esme. I was very much in a crisis to begin with that night. Suicides had become increasingly common that season, and I had already lost several patients for reasons that could have been prevented."

"But you never took _their_ bodies back to your home in the middle of the night."

It was bold, but she did not regret the way her words had forced his eyes to widen by the slightest of margins.

"I could hear your heart beating," he whispered.

Her lips fell open.

"I knew you were still alive, and I couldn't leave you like that no matter how hopeless your condition seemed."

His eyes grew painfully fond then, flickering with reflected candlelight as he tilted his head back to let his gaze wash languidly over her face.

"I'd recognized you the second they pulled the sheet from over your face. Lord, Esme, you were so broken..." He reached over and took one of her hands in his, gently stroking his thumb over her knuckles in much the same way he had while she suffered the transformation. "You were covered in bruises, caked in blood, but I knew you. I knew your name, your face, your scent. It felt as though we had never parted after all those years. It felt like I'd never left you.

"There was a storm that day, and the electricity had gone out in the hospital. It was a sign for me, I knew it was; I barely gave it a second thought. So I rushed down to the morgue while everyone else was panicking, and I took your body and carried you home with me." He paused, and surprised her by smiling faintly. "As you can imagine, Edward was impressively furious with me."

Little more than a fascinated half-smile crossed Esme's lips as she listened to Carlisle recount the unheard tale of how she came to be a vampire. Unwilling to interrupt him, she begged him to continue with her eyes.

"I took you upstairs...and placed you on the bed..." His voice became low as his hand tightened around hers. "I realize now that deep down I had already made my decision. But I thought I could help you still. I thought I could keep you from dying at all, if I'd just tried a little harder." His eyes lifted, teary with the recollection. "But it was your time."

Her soft breathing was the only sound that filled the silence.

His face filled with conviction, like a statue of a saint on the outside of a cathedral. "I have no regrets, Esme. None. _Selfishly_, I have no regrets for bringing you into this life. I know that asking you to say the same is a disgracefully foolish thing to ask." His fingertips slid across the back of her hand and rubbed her knuckles lovingly. "But you cannot deny that something about this was meant to be."

She should have been reeling. He had told her exactly what had happened that night, how he had been scarred by the sight of her mangled body, how he made the decision to steal her away, how he had tried still to save her. But he still had not told her _why_ he had chosen to make her immortal.

This question remained a single hanging thread from a perfectly woven tapestry, and though she burned to do it, she still hadn't the courage yet to ask him.

Something about this _was _meant to be. In her heart, she had the same feeling. They shared this sensational inkling that there was more to her rebirth than what met the eye.

Slowly, Esme nodded her agreement. "My regrets grow fewer by the day, Carlisle."

He looked so full of relief, she had to shudder.

"Sometimes I wonder what my life right now would be like if you hadn't been the one to change me," she murmured. "It terrifies me whenever I try to imagine it."

"It terrifies me, too." He held her hand with both of his hands now, all ten of his fingers worshipping her skin with insatiable caresses. "Imagine instead what a wonderful future you will have with Edward and me."

They exchanged significant looks, full of expressions that went without names. The air was full of tension, but for a moment their hearts were connected, sharing utter peace. It was so amazing – like a sudden spell from heaven – this _one conversation_.

It was a marker of some kind. A milestone, no matter how insignificant it may have seemed compared to some of their deeper moments.

She wondered if he felt it as strongly as she did.

******-}0{-**

Daylight dragged on like an eternity when Carlisle was away. His shifts seemed to grow longer as the days did, and he now only came back when the sun was about to kiss the mountains behind their house.

She waited faithfully for him to return to her, spending most of her day seated at the harp where she practiced all the techniques Carmen had taught her. The sounds of the grand instrument were perfect for releasing a torment of emotions and a flood of expressions that could not be captured in art or writing.

Learning to play the harp was Esme's new challenge.

For the remainder of the day, Edward entertained her religiously until Carlisle came home, at which time it was simply understood that she would be alone with the doctor in his study for the rest of the evening. Edward left them in the house without a question or a remark, which Esme found highly suspicious.

When the sky was on the brink of sunset, Esme helped Carlisle light the candles scattered about the room. All lit by dim candlelight, the room resembled some luxurious chapel – but this time she was not alone to witness the sight; this time, he was here with her.

"So you've devoted yourself to learning how to play the harp after all?" he asked her conversationally, leaning against his favorite spot by the fireplace mantel.

She fidgeted slightly as she sunk into the chair across from him and cleared her throat. "Yes, I decided it was worth the effort to try something a little challenging for a change."

"A challenge I believe it is," he admitted with a sweet grin. "I have been listening to you practice."

"Oh..." She returned his smile numbly, too carefree to feel embarrassed. "I'm sorry if I've been disturbing you while you work—"

He interjected with fond laughter. "Oh, no. Quite the contrary," he assured. "I find your music quite...soothing."

She smiled graciously at the compliment, sliding her hand beneath her seat cushion to keep it from darting immediately to her cheek.

"Do you play any instruments besides the piano?" she asked him distractedly.

He tilted his head back sadly, dusting the immaculate front of his sweater vest lazily with one hand. "I've tried my hand at almost everything while in Europe. Although I must say I've felt a pull toward the violin. I've been wanting to learn—"

"Oh, I think that's a wonderful idea!" she burst in excitement. Watching a passionate man like Carlisle play the violin would have made an exquisite sight. "Why wait so long?"

"I... I don't know why I've waited so long," he said thoughtfully. "I suppose the inspiration for music, like the inspiration for art, only motivates one's heart at a certain time in his life."

"What do you think inspired you?" she asked.

He smiled kindly in her direction. "Is it not obvious?"

She tilted her head and stared at him innocently.

He extended one hand and gestured gracefully to her. "You," he said. "Your presence, your passion for art, your fascination with every detail around you." His dimples flashed. "You've awakened me in more ways than one, you know."

She pressed her fingers to her lips and giggled gently, watching his face brighten at the sound of her suppressed laughter.

He smiled warmly at her, eyes distant for a moment of profound intensity. "It makes me so happy to see you in better spirits lately, Esme." His lips looked so small, so soft, hardly moving as he spoke in a voice whose pure timbre honored its birthplace beautifully. "I know we've put you through difficult times this past year, but I can't tell you how grateful I am that you've been able to recover from every one of them."

If he'd said something so touching to her before today, she would have bowed her head with a shy smile and made a religion out of avoiding his gaze. But now she felt amazingly emboldened, able to meet his eyes for a quick moment where there was no discomfort or embarrassment or fear. She _wanted _to look him in the eyes, because she knew that this was what _he _wanted.

"You've helped me so much," she said humbly. "Both you and Edward."

The corners of Carlisle's eyes crinkled as his smile twitched, but she could not place whether the gesture was happy or sad. For a brief moment, she almost wished that she _hadn't _mentioned Edward's name for comfort's sake. What response might she have received if she'd dared to confine said help to only its present source?

"You've helped _yourself_ just as much, I'd say," he told her kindly. Then his eyes glittered dimly as a long silence passed between them.

Just when she'd thought he was hopelessly lost to his daydreams, he spoke softly and distantly; "You know the very first thought that crossed my mind when I first met you?"

She froze for a moment, unsure if he truly wanted her to offer a guess or not. From where he stood, his body blocked out the low orange orb of sun that peeked through the windows. The light pressed a shallow glow around the contours of his figure, rendering her breathless. She shook her head.

He tilted his head wonderingly and lowered his eyes fondly from her forehead to her chin, then back again to rest on her eyes. "How fragile you looked."

His words hovered in the air, and tiny orange and scarlet sparkles swirled around the looming shadow of her peripheral. Why an adjective like 'fragile' should make her feel so lightheaded was quite a mystery to her.

It was the way he said it.

Three syllables instead of only two.

She shivered.

"All humans must look that way to a vampire," she supposed with a weak shrug. Her shoulders were suddenly very heavy.

Her heart twisted in a pleased way as he slowly shook his head. "You seemed exceptionally so."

Her lips fell open but she didn't bother to close them.

His eyes were slightly sad when he spoke next. "Do you remember when I tried to make you promise never to climb another tree for as long you lived?"

"Yes, I remember." The words left her mouth immediately before she could even think on it. It was one of the few things about that memory she recalled with crystal precision.

"You told me you _didn't_ remember," he pointed out with a soft bluntness, the tiniest smirk to counter her with gentle accusation, "that night when I found you in that tree by the lake."

She blinked.

"I lied."

He smiled fully then, and her heart slid into her throat.

They stared at each other for a moment that was more like a microcosm for eternity. Her breathing fell shallow and a trilling sensation shot through her toes, and she almost thought that he might have kissed her if she were only a bit closer to him...

But of course this was only her imagination.

Carlisle breathed deeply and turned around to tie back the curtains, shrouding himself in that infuriating cloak of mystery yet again. It was maddening the way she could have studied him all day long – and in many ways that was exactly what she had just done – but she still would have never understood the man he was completely. There was still _something _that she could never ever place about him. Something that drew her to him and clutched her so tightly she thought she might suffocate. Something that pulled the breath from her lungs, and injected her heart with joy and warmth, and stuffed her stomach with restless butterflies.

There was no frame of reference for her when she watched him moving. Colors merely blurred together around him in a way that only made him more dominant in her eyes. She was painfully aware of every twitch and blink and step and breath he took. Everything he did perplexed and confounded and astounded her, and as much as she fought the merciless pulse of blazing affection, she only loved him more with every second that ticked by. Soon this would all collapse over her head – she knew it was coming, but she could not prepare for it. At this point, she decided, it was useless to worry over when that moment would come. She would let it ruin her because she was ruined regardless, without him.

How complicated. How simple.

Everything was complicatedly simple, and simply complicated.

His back still turned to her, he finished tying the curtains with slow hands, lingering by the window while she remained lost in her own thoughts.

"I was going to show it to you when it was finished," he said out of the blue, and she was deeply confused at first as to what he was talking about.

He glanced at her with a sheepish smile that made her elbows melt into the arms of the chair. "The painting upstairs," he explained succinctly.

She blinked twice, caught utterly off-guard. Somehow he knew she had peeked in on his painting.

He had been trying to keep it secret and she had ruined it.

She stuttered shamefully, coming up blank as to what she could say in her defense. "Oh... Carlisle, I..."

He did not wave off her insecurity, but he simply turned his body to look at her with a fond smile in place. "I suppose I should have known your notorious curiosity would lead you to it eventually. I have always been a rather poor job at keeping secrets."

She sat up a little straighter and fumbled through her excuse. "I didn't mean to see it! It was only that my paints had gone missing, and—"

He swiftly interrupted her with a gentle nod of his head. "Again, quite foolish on my part."

They laughed bashfully at the awkward situation before he continued, "It was more difficult than I'd anticipated it would be – painting on my own." His expression was one of slight awe as he stared at her. "Look at _you_, churning out canvas after canvas in a matter of hours – and _me_ pacing myself at a ridiculous one stroke per day." He chuckled at his own expense, but she was careful not to laugh along with him this time. Truly she didn't find it funny that he was a patient painter. She found it beautiful.

"There's nothing wrong with going slow," she pointed out with a tender smile. "Some artists take years if they have to."

"Decades, Esme," he corrected with a grin, pressing his hand over his heart. "_This_ artist would have taken decades."

She bit her lip to keep from giggling, but then another curiosity crossed her mind.

"So…is your painting finished yet?" she questioned precariously.

"Has it been ten years yet?" he retorted teasingly, and she felt slightly flush.

"I shall be counting down," she assured with a fond chuckle.

He stared at her with an intensity that made her shift in her seat, his fingers absently prodding the side of his hip as he thought. Then he asked her, "What did you think of it?"

"Oh..." Her eyes popped open to gauge his face, and finding his eyes positively swimming with curiosity, she quickly became breathless. "It was beautiful. Truly beautiful." She nodded in soft sincerity.

"I call it _Lake Cordial by Moonlight,_" he told her quietly. "Every night I would see the moon hovering above the lake outside, like a silent silver saint. It was so inspiring to me. I've never looked at that lake the same way since..." He drifted off, unable to commit to whatever he had intended to say. She cocked her head encouragingly, but he instead turned to look out the window again, embracing himself in mysterious silence.

She silently admired the lambent line of his shimmering profile as he stared out the window, always wondering what went on behind those eyes. His gaze became almost translucent when the sunset reflected in such a way against the golden flecks. In any other light, she saw an artificial contentedness, but in pure sunlight, she saw the filmy lace of a sorrow that could not be washed away. There was an achingly exquisite sensitivity in those eyes – as if even with everything he had been forced to witness, both wonders and horrors, he still held onto that chaste curiosity of the child he once was.

Without making the connection between brain and body, motivation and motive, Esme rose from her chair and walked towards him, feeling her feet grow heavier with every step until she was securely beside him. This was her chance to ask him the question she had been aching to ask him since the day she had awoken under his wing.

She would not sacrifice her courage this time.

"Why did you change me, Carlisle?"

She had no idea what had possessed her to say his name, nor what had enabled her for that matter. Even after all this time, saying his name was like stealing a piece of candy. It was a guilty pleasure that was uttered at the expense of feeling far too personal with him. It was not a necessity, especially not in his presence. But this time it had never felt more right.

His steady gaze faltered a bit as he remained focused on the grand landscape outside the window, but his soft voice was full of assuring conviction as he answered in a ripe whisper, "Because I could not bear to watch you die."

A deep and feverish warmth embraced her body at the sincerity of his words.

The breath in her lungs dissolved, and the weight of her heart was frightfully light within her chest.

"Thank you."

Her delicate murmur timidly punctured the silence that had fallen upon the room.

She didn't know why she said it; she only knew that she must say _something_... anything at all to ease this disturbingly thrilling tension.

He turned from the window to face her and smiled.

And it was there, in that singular moment in time where everything about him was like a blinding light, and she was made lame in his very presence.

Champagne eyes, golden hair, ivory flesh, cherubic lips.

It was the ancient perfection of his features that stung her, but it was the way he stood, the way he was smiling, the way his eyes looked, the way his skin glittered softly under the faint rays of blushing sunlight that made her want to fall on her knees before him and kiss his feet.

He looked so much taller, so sure in his stance, so very much like _a man_ – one who she could never have. His mere presence was electrifying and numbing at once. Being close to him like this made her speechless. Being so very near to his body, his face, and not being able to touch him was maddening to the point of physical pain.

Never before had she recalled being so astounded by any one object, any one image, any one being.

A frivolous Cupid had taken to practicing his archery skills on her poor, swollen heart. Its chubby little hands viciously sharpened every arrow to a deadly point especially for her. She could hear the taunting giggles of the winged baby in her head as he mercilessly impaled her with them, one after another, after another.

His aim was perfect.

Her heart now bled in her chest, tortured and raw, in dire need of healing hands.

If she had no more life in her yet, this was surely just a cruel dream. Nothing in reality could have better answered her unspoken prayers than Carlisle Cullen.

And here he was, standing so near to her that she could feel his breath on her forehead, could feel the colorless blush that bloomed on her cheeks as the warmth from his body rushed into the depths of her heart.

She could spend not a second more this close to him. She had either to ignore his existence entirely or be taunted and tortured by his every breath.

And so, it was deemed necessary in that moment that she had to flee.

But she couldn't.

Every grain of the carpet beneath her was working against her, trapping her. Her feet were locked to the ground, so close to his. So close.

She could not _imagine _moving. She did not _want _to move. Unless it was closer to _him._

The danger of being so near to him in this silence was palpable now. His magnificent eyes were crystallizing like the heavens, quickly making realization of her all too blatant feelings, and there was nothing she could do to hide that now.

"You're welcome…"

His words, being so late in response, made no sense the moment he finally uttered them.

His smile faded, but it did not disappear. No, it was still very much there; hints of it lingering on his delicate pink lips.

Something pure and terrifying had blossomed in his eyes. It was richer than gold and softer than silk; bolder than the blade of a sword, and more tender than the sun. Only now did she realize it must have been there all along.

_Could it have been love…?_

In a flash of sinful fantasy, she could feel herself kissing him, possessed by her passion, and his taste was so much better than blood, better than anything because he was her savior. She could feel herself against his body – his strong, solid body – could feel him holding her with his healing hands. She could feel her fingers swimming in the warm waves of his amber locks, could feel his weight tenderly crushing her as he laid her bare beneath him in a cloud of cotton sheets.

Have mercy.

He knew. He must have.

She blinked in time to wake from her splendid daydream, cold and heartbroken to find that her lips were still very much alone.

He had still not kissed her…

She could have cried.

_"Esme."_

Her name on his lips was her last heartbeat. It was velvet, prayer, pleasure, heat, whisper.

No one said her name the way he did. As far as she knew in that moment, no one _had ever said _her name before.

She could not respond to Carlisle when he addressed her. She could not make eye contact without that sweltering fever flooding through her chest. She could not say _his _name without feeling that luxurious fire in her womb.

She knew these terrible, wonderful feelings could never be possible if she did not still possess a soul. She knew she was in love, and she knew her heart would never sing such a pure song for another man.

But as the sunset laid itself to rest, the darkness put an abrupt but acceptant end to their words.

Esme stepped backwards twice, then turned around. She felt him in the room, so keenly, watching her every step which grew more frantic as the earth spun on its axis. She had no idea what she was doing, where she was going, or what Carlisle could have possibly been thinking as he watched her leave. The world around her had never before felt so simplistic, so fragile. It was terrifying.

Several moments later she found herself lingering in the threshold, about to step into the hall when Carlisle called out to her softly.

"A key, Esme."

A tickle of surprise pinched her belly as she turned around. There was nothing significant about what he had said, yet she knew it held a part of her fate. Somehow, she knew she must hear it once again.

"What?"

His eyes glittered back at her.

"The final symbol I saw was a key."

* * *

**You can read Carlisle's point of view of this chapter in Behind Stained Glass, "Chapter 34: Forever's Final Hour."**


	56. Finding Faith

**Chapter 56:**

**Finding Faith**

* * *

_"The final symbol I saw was a key."_

A key.

His confession rang clear and true in her soul, but she could not answer the resounding echo in her mind.

A key...

_What could it mean?_

"Your symbol is not a secret anymore," she told him in a whisper.

He only smiled, as if he were perfectly at peace with this fact.

"Nothing remains a secret forever," he said.

How true it was.

If her inkling was correct, her feelings were no longer a secret either.

She held her breath for a few tense moments, waiting for him to say_ something _that would give her a clue. Not even his expression changed as he stared at her, drinking in every detail of her from across the room. He did not make any moves, did not spare any breath. He was all but hypnotized.

"We both know each other's secrets now," she said plainly, trying in vain to cleverly compartmentalize everything they had shared that evening.

"We have a whole night to share more..."

His silken suggestion made the room feel ten times warmer.

_A whole night..._

Of course. Their night had only just begun.

The dark hours had never seemed so daunting to Esme before. As Carlisle walked slowly around the front of his desk, candles flickering invitingly around him, she wondered if she could handle another eight hours with him, sharing her darkest secrets.

"Perhaps we have shared enough for one night," she whispered shakily as she gripped the side of the door.

His brow furrowed, but in his eyes she could see that he was more than willing to share so much more.

Such an offer was too delicious to indulge.

She had to think up a reasonable excuse.

"I think I should go and find Edward," she said anxiously, tapping her fingers on the door. "He's been gone for so long. I'm a little worried about him. Aren't you?"

She must have appeared more desperate than she thought. Carlisle quickly turned and looked out the window, as if he could somehow sense his son's direction through the darkness. When he looked back at her, his eyes were solemn and deep with understanding.

"He _has_ been gone for a while..." He paused and licked his lips, as if he were purposefully avoiding revealing something more. "But I don't think we need to worry."

Her suspicions sizzled like butter in a hot pan.

"Carlisle, he's been gone for more than a day."

There was something sinfully exciting about the twinge of fear in his eyes. He looked as if he'd just been caught in a lie. And it was all the evidence she needed to know that something more was going on.

"I have a feeling he's closer than you think," he whispered, so softly the wind almost swept his words into silence.

Yet another secret was passed between their piercing gazes. The confirmation could not have been more plain.

Edward had not gone any further than their own back yard.

Esme darted from the house, lungs heaving for air that did not smell like incense and exotic fruit and romantic candlelight. She pushed from her mind all thoughts of wine-red carpeting and mahogany bookshelves and golden eyes filled with piercing compassion.

Had she been a victim all along of some master plan? Had Edward purposefully left the house for so long just to give her a chance to admit her feelings to Carlisle? Had Carlisle been playing a part in devising the set up from the beginning?

Whatever was happening tonight, she hated and loved it at once.

It was a little thrilling for her to imagine Carlisle treading on her tail, had he followed her blindly into the dark forest without her knowledge. What would it be like if she were to suddenly glance over her shoulder and see him behind her, beautifully blond and breathless? He would rush to her and take her wrist and stop her in her tracks. He would meld his lips to hers in a harsh, heart wrenching kiss, and confess that he had loved her since the very moment their eyes had met.

A chill sizzled up her spine at the thought, and she had to look behind her and make sure Carlisle was still _not _there.

Her feet swept over the damp earth as she blazed through the woods to the hidden conservatory – her only haven these days. If only there had been a door to slam behind her.

She hadn't built one yet.

Esme's chest was heavy and her feet felt like lead and her muscles were twitching all over as she took refuge in the dark, misty conservatory in the forest. The croaking of toads and sizzling of nocturnal insects lulled her for a brief minute of restoration. With shaky hands, she carefully lit several of the fluorescent gas lamps that lined the windows.

This place looked so lonely. So deliciously lonely.

It was perfect for a moment like this.

She _wanted _lonely right now. At least she thought she did.

She clutched her skirt with one hand only because she needed something to clutch. She was frightfully fidgety, but she hoped just a bit of deep breathing and a good long walk would help to calm her down.

As she paced around the pressed stone path, Esme tried to distract herself with watering the flowers. But with her mind clearly elsewhere, she only managed to drown a few buds in a bath of soil.

Blindly, she let the watering can clatter to the ground and moaned in distress.

"He knows."

She said it over and over as she paced frantically around the humid conservatory. Her silky hair was frayed to a fluffy mess of russet tendrils that refused to lay flat against her head. As if her anxiety were contagious, a palpable air of agitation seemed to have befallen the entire greenhouse – the honeybees buzzed about in a frenzied crisscross of haphazard paths; the nervous strains of hummingbirds hovered around flowers that seemed to have over-bloomed, dilated by the thrill of her flurry.

She felt delirious and dizzy and deliciously breathless. Her heart now resided somewhere by the base of her throat, and had ever since she'd left Carlisle's study not minutes earlier. Confident that he could not hear her from the distance, she persistently confirmed her most daunting suspicion.

_He knows._

She told the birds, she told the beetles, she told the flowers she had accidentally drowned, she told the worms that crawled in the soil, she told the dirt beneath her feet.

_He knows. He knows exactly what I feel for him. Oh, how could I have let this happen?_

Out of her sight, a handsome intruder made his way stealthily into her hectic little sanctuary, and he watched her as she swiftly lost her mind, waiting for the opportune moment to intervene.

"He knows. Oh, God. He knows…"

The moment Esme heard a new footstep behind her, she turned and faced her visitor with a look of frazzled desperation. "Edward, it's you!"

The youth shook his head and clicked his tongue like a disappointed father.

"Oh, I… I don't know what to do," Esme continued to stammer breathlessly as if he could solve her problem. Her hand clutched the fine green throat of a lily and she choked the poor plant to death with her iron grip, letting it wilt blindly to the ground.

Edward watched the sad white petals land with a gentle splat beside Esme's bare foot, a sympathetic smile on his face.

"What do I do? What do I do?" she muttered in a mentally unsound fashion, scurrying all over the cramp conservatory, a beautiful bundle of hysteria.

"What indeed," Edward whispered to the air, lazily paving his way through hanging vines as he slowly brought up the rear of her endless spiral.

He stayed a safe distance behind her until she finally came to rest against her wooden worktable, which was scattered with half-finished sketches of architectural dreams and bright yellow and lime oil pastels. Her arms leaned back heavily onto the surface of the table, carelessly smearing some of her colored compositions.

"I'm exhausted," she whimpered, lungs heaving theatrically.

Edward chortled as he crossed his arms over his chest, looking perfectly cool and collected in his studious wool and plaid attire. "I'd imagine so."

She shook her head slowly, pausing to swallow a small flood of venom. "You don't understand… I—" Her mouth clamped shut as if she had just reached the understanding herself. What _had _happened to her? What had spurred this insanity?

Edward simply stared in confusion, fruitlessly attempting to clearly read her thoughts.

"Oh, sweet Lord, have mercy on me!" she cried to the heavens.

Edward's eyes widened as she heaved over the side of the table and spat a wad of pearly syrup onto the imitation cobblestone tiles.

She choked dramatically, hands clasping her throat as she struggled to find her voice. "Damn this awful substance!" she gurgled as the slick venom persistently coated her tongue.

"Watch now, or you'll kill the plants," Edward warned dryly as she narrowly missed a freshly potted trio of tulips.

A playful flock of butterflies fluttered innocently about her head as she dribbled on, mistaking her swell of sweetness for a flower's nectar.

"Oh, God, what's happening to me?" She bent at the waist again behind the table, and any human witness might have thought she was retching from the nerves.

"Our venom thickens when we feel anxious or threatened," Edward explained as she wiped her mouth several times on the back of her hand. "It's a defense mechanism."

She glared at him in confusion, hand still covering her mouth protectively, and he struggled to hold in a laugh. "So what are you defending yourself against, Esme?"

Esme shook her head absently and coughed into the corner. Edward raised his eyebrows in question, but she just sighed, utterly spent, and sank slowly to the ground in a clumsy heap with her arms around her middle.

Grateful for an excuse to abandon pretenses, Edward sprawled casually beside her on the ground and half-listened to the giddy nonsense of her thoughts.

"I'm sorry I'm such a mess," she whined in embarrassment, cupping her cheeks in her hands.

Edward tilted his head closer to her as if it would help him to better read her mind.

"Why are you so upset?" he asked, unable to pick out a thought coherent enough to explain the reason behind her worry.

"He knows," she mourned woefully, as if it were the most profound tragedy. "I think he knows that I... He knows how I feel."

Edward crinkled his eyebrows at her. "But he hasn't said anything to acknowledge it?"

She shook her head.

"Then how are you so certain 'he knows'?"

Her gaze lifted to the ceiling, lost in an iron-latticed vortex of cracked glass. "I saw it in his eyes."

Edward pursed his lips, considering her mindful of heavenly visions for a minute while she breathed heavily. Then out of the blue, he asked a very strange question.

"Esme, can you spell 'Mississippi'?"

Her head whipped around to face him, utterly bewildered. A bitter half-laugh spouted from her gaping mouth, but she did not answer him.

"Go, on. Spell it for me," he encouraged kindly.

She scoffed, shaking her head at his ridiculous effort to change the subject, but spelled it nonetheless.

"M-I-S-S-I-S-S-I-P-P-I."

With each letter she recited, Edward's boyish smile grew wider, and she was pleasantly surprised by the slight warmth of reason that began to creep back into her overwrought mind.

She stared idly at his delighted grin, still somewhat befuddled.

"Comprehension check," he explained, tapping his finger to his temple.

She rolled her eyes but couldn't help smiling in appreciation.

"Do you want my input now?" he asked politely.

She looked him over expectantly.

"Carlisle is not an idiot."

Her eyebrows shot past her hairline, and Edward's smile quirked.

"You could not have expected that he would go on forever, _never_ noticing the way you felt about him."

She wished his words had been true, but now that he had said it so bluntly, she realized that some part of her _had _thought she could get away with it. That very same part of her hoped that Carlisle never _would _have to find out about her feelings for him...unless that chance somehow promised his love in return.

"I..." She paused, self-conscious of her own words before continuing softly, "I suppose I did expect that."

Edward sighed patiently. "What exactly is so _bad _about him knowing that you care?"

"It isn't _just _care, Edward. It never was. You know that."

"But Carlisle doesn't know that...necessarily," he trailed cryptically.

She covered the sides of her head with her hands. "Stop confusing me."

"You need to tell him," he spewed suddenly.

"And if I don't?"

"I'll—"

"You can't speak a word about this to him! Never—"

"Of course I wouldn't," Edward interrupted promptly. "I promised I would never do that to you," he said, eyes steady.

She relaxed somewhat, raking her fingers through her curls and slumping against the wall. "Thank you."

"I was only going to say that I would have pity on you. And Carlisle," he pointed out gently. "Whether you acknowledge it or not, your dishonesty will affect his feelings as well."

"I don't want to hurt him," Esme whispered, her eyes wide with fear.

Edward sighed and reached up to loosen his necktie, patiently picking the plaid knot with his fingers. "Then you should at least confirm the gravity of your feelings for him."

Esme only shook her head like a stubborn child who refused to talk.

"I don't understand the reasoning behind your vehemence," Edward said, his voice strained with frustration. "Please enlighten me, because your thoughts are only doing the opposite."

"I'm afraid," she whined softly.

His face was wary. "Yes, I can feel the fear, but it makes no sense to me."

Esme ducked her head away from him, suddenly too ashamed to speak. Her mind involuntarily conjured the hazy, erotic movements of Carlisle embracing a faceless woman in passionate surrender – a strange, melancholy illusion in hurtful shades of liquid gray and violet.

"Esme..." Edward leaned his weight against the window, shoulders sagging as though from exhaustion, his voice a strained warning.

She apologized silently, hiding her face in her hands as she tried to clear her mind to a clean white slate.

Edward shifted uncomfortably while she continued to wonder without words how especially awful her thoughts would seem if Carlisle had once possessed a wife in his former life.

"Carlisle has never _been with _a woman, Esme," Edward confirmed in gentle exasperation.

Her heart slammed against her throat, refusing to renew her relief before she was certain what he'd said was true. "Has he told you this, straight from his mouth?"

Edward's lips set into a line of deference, but his voice was wonderfully calm when he spoke. "No, but it is something he would have thought of, at least once, by now." He gave an easy shrug of his shoulders. "And he hasn't."

A heavy breath of relief knocked pleadingly on her lungs, but Esme still refused to release it. She desperately thought of anything to counter this and threw it right back at him.

"What if he _did _once have a lover as a human, but he has no memory of it?"

She expected Edward to roll his eyes at her overzealous concern, but he only looked at her with a slightly sympathetic smile on his face, softening his features beyond what she had imagined them capable.

"Then you would still have nothing to worry about, wouldn't you?"

Not good enough.

"What if I _do_ tell him that I have feelings for him...and he refuses me?" Her voice mellowed to a timid whisper.

Edward made a bothered little noise in the back of his throat. "_Refuse_ is a strong word."

Esme considered the word in her mind, measuring the volume it held with regard to her situation. As far as she could see, Carlisle was fully incapable of harming another being in any way. If she had confessed her love for him, he would have no choice but to return it out of pity.

Therein lay the problem.

Even if he _did_ claim to love her, how could she ever expect it to be genuine? Carlisle loved everyone around him mercilessly. The idea of him tossing an anchor from his heart to one person – one _woman – _was almost a disgrace to the way his heart worked.

This was why Carlisle was nearly untouchable, inconceivable to claim as a lover.

Emerging from her consuming sea of worry, Esme warily glanced over at Edward.

_Does he have no interest at all in taking a mate? _

She could not bear to say it out loud.

Edward winced. "I'm bound not to reveal that to you." It was exactly the response she had feared.

A loud mental sigh of frustration thwarted her thoughts.

"But I do know that Carlisle would sooner crucify himself than hurt you," Edward said boldly.

_Crucify himself?_

Inside her chest, Esme felt her heart being tenderly torn to shreds.

"I can't do this anymore, Edward." She fell against his narrow shoulder, and he was prepared to take her into his embrace.

His arms held her with a sureness she had never felt from him before. His sympathy was not merely pity; it was a noble entity, a strong fortification that protected her from her own harsh doubts.

"Only you can put an end to this, Esme."

She realized with a start that this had rested on her shoulders since the day it had all dawned on her. Even now, she could never admit to herself that she had been waiting for _Carlisle _to end her turmoil. He had been her hero in every other instance, but this time, she realized with profound dismay, he was not going to come to her rescue no matter how long she waited.

And how could he, when he did not even know she was feeling so lost?

She had never needed to call for his help before. He had always been there before she could even part her lips to summon him.

When she imagined it in her head, she saw him, angelic-golden-prince-atop-white-horse in glory beyond compare, declaring his love in a manner that would have made Shakespeare weep, as he swept her off her feet and refused to let her toes ever touch the ground again.

It was not going to happen. She had been holding out for a fantasy all this time.

Fantasy was not reality, even in the world of a vampire.

She nudged her head further into Edward's stone chest and sobbed. Nothing was more comforting and more humiliating than having him hold her as dueling emotions flew unbridled across her mind. Edward _felt _every pulse of pain, every selfish stab, every abrasion of her eroded and impoverished heart. He _knew_ what she was going through, while Carlisle was perfectly oblivious to this ache he had instilled within her, this ache that slowly consumed her.

It was downright despicable that her struggle, after all this time, had nothing to show for itself. She simply wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all – the injustice in having so much power, but no courage to use it.

Edward leaned slightly closer to speak softly into her ear. "I know you feel like everything is hopeless right now, but you need to stop feeling sorry for yourself and start making these changes on your own."

"But—"

"Don't, Esme," he interrupted, pulling his head back to look down at her, eyes glinting in warning. "Don't try and tell me you've already tried, because you haven't. You're always running away from things at the last minute. You run away before you realize how far you've made it. That is why you feel like you have accomplished nothing, even after all this time." His voice was astoundingly declarative, yet still hushed and gentle, rather like the way she'd heard Carlisle speak so many times before. "You're so used to being the victim, but now you realize that you have to be the hero...and you're scared."

No matter if he could read her mind or not, the eloquence with which he was able to articulate her thoughts was positively staggering.

"I only want to love him, Edward," she whimpered with a sad shake of her head. "I realize now that's all I've ever truly wanted. To make him happy, to protect him, to be here for him always."

Edward's gaze crystallized in understanding. "Do you ever think that maybe he just wants the same things for you?"

Something in the cautious intensity, the slowness, the awe-filled softness of his voice as he said it made her wonder.

"I'm always hoping," she admitted, looking up to him from under her lashes.

"Then stop hoping and _make_ him love you, Esme. _Make him love you_, if you want it so badly." His eyes were excited and hopeful as he took her hand and grasped it firmly for emphasis as he said the words.

She shook her head blankly, disillusioned. "How do I do that?"

"By telling him that _you _love _him_."

There was so much more to all of this than Edward was letting on. So much more that she felt only Edward knew. So much that he was not revealing, that he _couldn't_ reveal. It was a tiny bit thrilling to know that one such possibility could promise repercussions in her favor... but she had to _complete _the task first.

The most challenging task imaginable.

Her gaze lifted to Edward's face eagerly, but her tone was one of tentative warning. "Edward, you know that this would mean changes for you as well."

"I know that," he stated softly, clearly having thought it over many times before.

She bit her lip. "Sometimes I cannot tell if you truly want us to be together, or if—"

"Esme," he looked directly and fiercely into her eyes, quieting her at once. "_I want_ you to be happy. I want _both of you_ to be happy. If you're meant to be together then you shouldn't have to wait any longer." He shook his head, smiling ever so faintly as he said it, and for the first time, she truly stopped to let herself think.

She breathed a tremulous breath, staring at him straightforwardly as she envisioned a scenario where she would have no chances to turn back. Maybe such a scenario would be the only solution. She had to force herself into a situation where it was necessary for her to reveal the truth once and for all – even if that meant losing her integrity and her dignity and her sanity.

For once, she would have to be her own hero.

"It's not going to happen," she whimpered tragically. "I can't even imagine it, something so wonderful... I don't deserve it after what I did. I've made nothing but terrible choices from the day I jumped..."

"None of us are perfect, Esme. Carlisle would never turn you away for your mistakes, just as you would never turn him away for his. He wants nothing more than to help you through everything. He can't do that if you don't come to him first."

Before she knew it, the sun was rising through the filmy old windows of the conservatory where they hid. The room was glowing with soft green and gold rays, like a dawning of heaven's light from above. The music of morning melted around them, birds chirping whimsically and wind rustling the leaves like the breath of a loving mother.

"Oh, Edward." She could barely breathe, could barely compartmentalize all that was racing through her mind. "This is so..."

He smiled strangely, his hand running awkwardly over his neck as he stared out the windows, inspiration gleaming in his eyes. He knew the word she was repeating through her thoughts, and he opened his mouth, perhaps to utter it aloud, but then he closed his lips complacently and sat back, knowing it was better understood in silence.

_Thrilling. _Her thoughts proclaimed. This was _thrilling_.

"Carlisle is leaving for the hospital right now," Edward declared beneath his breath.

Esme's eyes widened as her head turned in the direction of the house, her whole body prepared to take flight and run after him before he could get away.

But Edward took her hand. "When he comes back, go to him. You don't need to tell him right away. But you shouldn't hide from him, Esme. Things will fall into place." His eyes raised with a sparkle of significance. "Have _faith._"

This word, on Edward's lips. He had chosen it, and there was something so _significant _about that.

It was always Carlisle who had used the word freely.

_Faith. _

But now it belonged to all of them. It could belong to _her _as well.

She only needed the strength to seize it.

******-}0{-**

Carlisle was gone all night.

Somehow she didn't think he had gotten caught up at the hospital. Somehow she thought he was prolonging the time he took to come home on purpose. It didn't matter what his reasons were. She was willing to wait for him.

The inspiration hit her the moment she heard the loving squeal of the front door.

"Tell me about God."

It was the only subject they had not yet discussed in the depth she desired. If she wanted to _know _Carlisle in the deepest sense of the word, she had to know about his faith.

Only now did Esme realize she _wanted _to hear it all from his lips, not a detail to be spared.

He looked so elated, so divinely inspired just to hear these rare words from her.

"Walk with me," he said, his eyes like candles to light her way. And she thought this quote to be from Christ Himself.

_Walk with me, in my footsteps. Drop everything, and follow me. Follow me to the ends of the earth..._

Oh, she would have walked right off the edge for him.

Carlisle took his shoes off before he left the house. His feet now matched her own, equal in their bareness.

She followed him without a word, into the dew-drenched mist of morning. It was still dark, but his presence seemed to glow in the forest. The air was fragrant with wild herbs, nothing but the timid chirp a bird to disturb the eerie silence that fell upon the world before dawn. Above, the sky was a starless sea of deep blue, with lashes of moonlight still glistening on the long, leafy branches of trees.

In the midst of it all, Carlisle was a solitary beacon – a pale, shimmering vision gliding through the deep greens and browns, looking so graceful and heroic as he led Esme's way. The grass was glossy and cool around their naked feet as they walked side by side in silence, only stopping when they'd passed through the thick curtains of willows and reached the shore of Lake Cordial.

The resemblance of the scene to Carlisle's painting was stunning. She recalled how perfectly his paint strokes had captured even the subtlest ripples of the lake during the most peaceful time of day. He truly did find the most inspiration during the early hours of dawn. His fingers were wise, able to illustrate the sheer and unassuming beauty of the moon above water.

_Lake Cordial by Moonlight. _

The exquisite image would forever be branded in her memory.

She watched the artist himself as he stepped closer to the edge of the lake, allowing his toes to bathe in the cool water. His hands were hanging at his sides, idle, but she could feel her heart blazing beneath her breast, just knowing all that those hands were capable of…

"Look," he whispered, tipping his chin toward the trees on the opposite shore in the distance.

Esme's eyes strayed across the lake. "Where?" she asked, uncertain.

"Anywhere," he answered.

So she looked.

"Do you see Him?"

She flinched at first, surprised at the expectation in his voice. He was asking her if she could see...God.

Helplessly, her eyes rested on the doctor whose impossibly handsome face rivaled the image of peace itself.

"I see beauty," she replied, her voice thick with honest desire, shaking with sincerity. "I see it everywhere."

"Do you know why we find things beautiful?" he asked her, as if whispering a solemn vow.

She slowly shook her head.

"Because, deep inside our hearts, in the furthest reaches within our innermost selves, we know that everything we see around us is God's creation."

Carlisle's words hung in the air as they stared at each other, in the deep sea of breaking dawn, with nothing but their breath and the gentle song of the lake to remind them that _they _were God's creations. Both of them. And it must have been understood, embedded in the very intensity of both their gazes as they stared, that they each found the other beautiful. So incomprehensibly, divinely beautiful.

Esme smiled softly, and lowered her eyes. "I like that," she shyly conceded to the dewy grass beneath her feet.

She didn't need to look at Carlisle's face. She could feel his smile permeating the air around her, swirling into her, weakening her knees until she came to the ground. Literally.

Her legs curled beneath her dress as she landed in the clover, and he watched her graceful descent with a quirked brow, so unaware that his unseen smile had been the cause of it.

Then he came and sat himself down beside her, hands flat in the grass.

"You seem sad."

"Hmm?"

He tilted his head closer to her as concern passed like familiar silk over his features. "You asked me to tell you about God... Why?"

"I feel like I don't know Him," she confessed with a sigh. "Not like you do."

"But you want to."

She nodded.

"What do you want to know?" His eyes were already glistening with enticing answers.

So she breathed in deeply and asked him. "Do you believe that God sometimes allows things to happen to us? Tragic things that could have been...prevented?"

Carlisle knitted his eyebrows together and pondered for a while, gazing at the glassy lake. "God is in control always, but He gives us free will," he explained gently. "I don't believe He would allow anything terrible to happen to us, unless it were designed to bring us closer to Him in some way."

She must have still appeared puzzled when he looked at her, because he was prompted to continue speaking.

"Pain and loss are sometimes the only things that will inspire us to come closer to God," he murmured solemnly. Lost in thought, he turned away and reached out with gentle, restless fingers to strum the pale green teardrops hanging from the willow tree above them. "Too often we credit good fortune with our own tactfulness. If pain is the only way to remind us that we still need Him, then He will allow us to experience that pain." His eyes grew dim and his voice deepened as his fingers clung to the end of one willowy vine. "That is what _I _believe."

Carlisle's obscenely peaceful expression almost discouraged Esme from offering an argument to his claim. But in the back of her mind, she knew she must remind him of another point of view.

"Edward says that God may not care enough to interfere in our lives at all," she challenged quietly. "Because we have already...passed on."

"That is what _Edward _believes," Carlisle declared, a strange, warm force behind his words. His fingers released the tiny green bud on the end of the vine as he turned to share a significant glance with her. "What do _you _believe, Esme?"

To her regret, she felt more lost than ever. "I don't know."

Some of the passion drained from his eyes, his face showing lines of lovely pity. He looked as if he were about to speak again, but this time she interrupted without hesitation.

"Oh, Carlisle," she whimpered, a gust of wind hurrying in to mask the revealing tenderness in her sigh. "I want so desperately to have your faith."

It was not all she wanted to say – not even close. But she could not dare to utter what her heart was screaming in perfect silence.

_I want to have your faith, but I am terrible because I envy you. I envy the way you believe with such stark loyalty. I envy your devotion, your obedience, your intimacy with God_. _I want to be like you. I want to be one with you so that I may be one with God..._

Her eyes prickled with the taunting threat of tears that would never fall.

"Faith is for everyone, Esme," Carlisle whispered beside her. "But you need to _believe_ that before you can attain it."

Her heart seized, purely insatiable. "_How?_ How do I find it? Where do I even begin?" she implored.

With a soft smile, he planted one strong hand firmly on the ground between them. "Right here. Right now."

Intimidated by his hands and the elegant freedom with which he gestured, Esme hid her own shy hands beneath her arms and touched her chin to her shoulder. "What if my soul cannot be redeemed because...I ended my own life...?"

Carlisle's face twisted into an exquisite mask of sympathy. "Esme, you cannot think like that. I know you have your doubts, but I want you to know this: I believe you have a second chance. You_ deserve _a second chance." The emphasis in his words floored her. His eyes were glowing, his voice pulsing with passionate certainty. "Now is your time to seize the spring of salvation."

Her chin lifted. "Salvation?"

"Do you not believe that we deserve to be saved just as we did when we were human?" he asked.

Of course _he _deserved to be saved.

Her heart sank slightly. "I wish we _all _did."

"Oh, but Esme, when you stop wishing and start believing_, that _is when the miracles occur." With those words, he leaned back into the glazed grass, resting his arms behind his head. The spirit of youthful vigor and evangelical charm sparkled in his bright honey eyes as they trustingly scanned the sky above. "It's truly amazing how _nothing_, no matter how tragic or terrible it is, can uproot your peace of mind once you have found this faith... Nothing."

Esme stared down at Carlisle in wonder as he lay in the grass. Her eyes shamelessly swept over the length of his powerful legs, the pleasant weight of his presence, the luxurious solitude of his body as he sprawled out alone under the sparse shade of the weeping willow. She silently marveled at the comfort with which he now exposed himself, his bare feet and forearms and that tempting triangle of skin on his chest open for her gaze to lavish with attention.

_Nothing could uproot his inner peace. _

How true this was.

"Nothing."

He looked up to meet her eyes in a snap of gracious concern as she whispered the word out loud. Carefully, he raised himself up beside her once again, his supporting arm just inches from touching her back.

"No. Even if the world were to end right this moment, you would have no fear. You would have complete trust in the Lord. You would _know _that He would never abandon you."

Carlisle flustered her when he spoke like that – when his words were more like water – when he filled her with glorious meaning and the slow sting of being _alive_.

Shyly, she winced. "What if God doesn't want me?"

In the warmest whisper imaginable, Carlisle uttered, "Impossible."

For a second, she laughed. Sad, weak, slightly choking laughter, filled with the pure elation at hearing that one whispered word pass Carlisle's lips. And if she could, she would have had tears in her eyes.

She wanted to fling herself against him and sink into his chest, and hear him whisper that word over and over again in her ear. _Impossible. Impossible. Impossible. _

"Will you ask God to take care of me anyway?" It was bold, but she softened the request with a childlike voice of needy innocence.

Carlisle closed his eyes, and for a moment she thought he was going to tell her that such a request was not appropriate. What he said next shocked her.

"I ask it every day, Esme." Her heart lurched as his eyes sparkled sincerely in the misty light. "Every day."

The whole world felt very heavy in that moment.

"You..."

She was going to whisper something back. She had started to address him in the familiar, simple way.

_You. _

It was a question. It was an answer. It was a name. It was _him. _

It was lost on her tongue.

Carlisle opened his eyes a little wider...and inched closer. Esme's arms were sizzling, her knees were shaking, and her lungs were frozen still. He was so close to being _close, _that she felt in danger of shedding her very skin with anticipation.

His eyes lowered wistfully to her shoulder, and she was unsure of whose fault it was that they had somehow subconsciously ended up mere inches away from each other.

She suddenly felt the soft stroke of his chin on the bare, waiting skin of her exposed shoulder. The gentle beats of his breath trapped beneath the blanket of her hair, striking her neck in an unpredictable dance of warm and cool upon her flesh. His arms pressed into her back, encouraging her to surrender to this strange breed of cuddle.

She was too shocked to respond to the nuzzles and nudges he tucked below her jaw. Too paralyzed by this feral fever that had taken hold of her body as he settled himself with such need against her. There was something so very visceral about the gesture, almost animal.

She felt herself responding, mirroring that powerful pull of instinct as her hand found his shoulder and she carefully pressed her body closer.

The thrumming began, deep in her throat – so smoothly it made itself known in a low, sweet purr. But the sound was like a song. She was no longer embarrassed or ashamed to let her instincts sing. And neither was he.

That tuneless song trembled free from his chest – the song she had only ever heard him sing while poised over the bleeding neck of a doe in the forest. Now he sang it for _her. _

They were harmonizing.

This was beautiful. This was _vampire. _

_Because_ it was vampire, it _was _beautiful.

He gently pulled away, but his arm remained, still strong behind her back. Without it, she would have fallen straight to the ground.

As they faced each other, his eyes delivered a silent message of tears. She would have done anything to make that look disappear.

That age-old urge was fiery in her chest – the urge to kiss him. It was like just _looking_ at a pillow when she _longed_ for sleep.

_Just do it_, her heart begged. _Just do it... Give him no choice_. _Give him no time to prepare._

But she couldn't.

The sun chose that moment to rise from behind the hills. Immediately their eyes turned to watch the glowing orange ink of daylight as it spurted over the ripples in the lake. The grand, glistening arrival of light into the world seemed to shock them awake with its cruelly beautiful entrance. In the light it was impossible to hide the desire in one's eyes. In the light it was impossible to go on like this, so close, so dangerously close...

"This day is a gift, Esme," Carlisle murmured. "Every new day is a gift given to you by God. It is an endless blessing." He stroked her cheek with the back of his finger and bowed his head down as the wind passed between them. "One of these days you will find your faith. Perhaps this will be that day."

"Do you think..." The rest of her sentence faded into nothing. Her mouth was left dry, and her throat was slick with venom. He was staring into her, so far inside her gaze that she wanted to toss him a rope to help him climb his way out. But he looked fine with being lost. He looked..._at home. _

"Hm?" he nudged for her to continue, with that one little noise from his throat. And she felt it in her heart, in her heels, and the lobes of her ears.

"Do you think I...have a chance?"

"Everyone has a chance, Esme," he said, his voice reassuring, husky. He let her soak in the weight of his words before turning to admire the glorious sunrise. His eyes swept over the scene as if he were looking through the gates of heaven.

_Oh, Lord, how she loved this man._

On a whim she reached out and let her fingertips touch his heart. "Do you miss it?"

Without turning toward her, he blinked at the newborn sun and whispered, "Miss what?"

"Heartbeat."

He closed his eyes, losing himself in the luxury of the forbidden word.

"I can't remember what it felt like." His lost accent peeked shyly through his words, a notable flutter in the way he pronounced his vowels.

Her heart danced. "_I_ remember."

"Tell me," he begged as he squeezed his eyes shut tightly, wholly enticed.

"You can hardly feel it most of the time, but when you...run very fast...or see something that frightens you, or..._someone_ who makes you happy...you can feel it quicken, right here." She nudged the left side of his chest with her knuckles and pressed firmly. "And it beats harder."

Finally he looked at her, his eyes barely able to stay open as he asked innocently, "Does it hurt?"

She shook her head, then added sadly, "Only when it breaks."

Her hand twitched, about to pull away, but then he stopped her. His own hand curled around hers, possessive and protecting. Her fingers felt hot and tingly, all trapped tight inside of his palm.

"Don't," he whispered, quick and needy. "Stay here...?"

The edge of question in his voice sent her heart shattering into pieces. _As if he must ask permission to prolong her touch. _

His eyes closed again as he pushed her hand closer to his heart and secured it there, never willing to let go.

"Your touch is...it is _nourishment..._it is...I..."

The tender severity with which he said the words stole the breath straight from her lungs. The muscles in his throat looked so taut, and the shakiness of his voice gave her chills. She had never seen Carlisle struggle so much with his words before. It was stunning.

"Esme, I... I need you."

Her eyes widened as his shut tighter. "I'm right here," she murmured in awe.

"No, I—" He shook his head once, frustrated. He worried his lip beneath his teeth, and his eyes flickered away as he tried to find the right words. "I need you...to believe."

"I _want _to," she said fervently. "But there will be always be times when I lose all reason—"

"Abandon reason, then." He sat up, lifted his weight on his knees, and bent closer until he was practically hovering over her, his hand still clinging to hers. "Let go. Find yourself. _Free _yourself."

"I am nothing but a vampire," she argued pointlessly. "I thirst for nothing but blood."

"Do you know what I thirst for, Esme?" he asked, body rigid and eyes fierce with longing.

She would have offered up an answer had her heart not been caught in her throat.

"I thirst for _truth_," he whispered.

"I don't have the strength that you do," she mourned with a weak sigh.

"Strength comes with faith, Esme." He lowered his gaze to drink in the sight of her small hand in his. Turning it over, he examined her palm with caring fingers until she could no longer hide her trembling. When his gaze lifted, she felt exposed enough to cry. "You are thirsting for faith. I can see it in your eyes."

His words were so heartbreakingly gentle, like raindrops landing on her skin. She wanted to soak them in.

"Help me find my faith," she pleaded, her voice barely audible.

"I will. I will, Esme," Carlisle murmured, his words caressing the top of her head. "Whatever it takes."

She burrowed herself into his arms and held on tightly. "Show me hope."

"Oh, I will. I promise you."

The morning mist enveloped their bodies in a fragile embrace. Waves of heat and light danced on the lake and shimmered through the willow trees. Sunlight beamed upon them, giving strength to their whispered vows.

Carlisle leaned in close, his lips just centimeters away from touching Esme's forehead...and with a careful nudge forward, she encouraged the kiss.

One, feather-light, torturously fragile touch of his small, soft lips.

Her skin was singing. Her heart was pounding. Her cheeks were blazing.

Carlisle had kissed her.

It had been the most chaste kiss imaginable, in the center of the least intimate part of her face – her forehead – and yet it had filled her with the strength of a guiding light around her soul.

"Our paths have been joined for a reason, Esme." He took her hand and held it against his cheek. "For centuries I had no one to hold my hand as I walked through this world. Now I have found yours to hold."

He held her steadily despite her quivering, his eyes wholly absorbed in hers and nowhere else.

"Will you stay by my side as we follow our chosen path together? Will you hold my hand, and walk with me?"

"Yes, Carlisle," she whispered, squeezing his hand tighter. "And I promise to never let go."

Not one mention of romantic feelings had been shared between them, and yet she had never felt more satisfied before. Here in his arms, finally understanding the power of his faith, Esme knew that she did not need Carlisle as a husband to know true happiness. All she knew was that they needed each other; whether they were mated or not no longer mattered. Though it was something she wanted more desperately than she had ever wanted anything else, she knew there was more to their connection than that kind of bond. Even marriage would do nothing to prove the love they had for one another.

They already knew how powerful it was.

It was the love of two people bound by their faith in each other, and it was more than enough to last an eternity.

******-}0{-**

Esme was heartbroken to watch Carlisle leave for the hospital after that fateful morning of faith by the lake. In his absence, she rested under the willow tree and remembered all that he had said. She took a long walk through the forest and freed her thoughts and worries, pondered everything she had been through, and recalled all the times she had come close to telling Carlisle how she felt. She tried with all her might to pinpoint what she had been doing wrong, what had been discouraging her from simply revealing the truth. But even after hours of walking through the woods, she had only arrived full circle without an answer.

She had every intention of telling Carlisle that she loved him when he came home that evening. But when the door finally opened and he stepped into the house, she could not even bring a single limb on her body to twitch.

If she saw him, she would cave. She knew it would happen. She had no control anymore. She may as well have been a volcano, ready to explode at any unpredictable second. It was for her own sanity that she had been so careful to keep out of his sight, like a clever insect avoiding the nasty slap of a hand in mid-air. But it was useless. Two beings under one roof could only avoid each other for so long, no matter how extensive the house itself was.

Somehow they pretended like everything was normal. Like they had _not _shared a profoundly intimate conversation, a closeness they had not dreamed of asking from the other before. They pretended it was just another part of their day. Like it was _not _a blindingly crucial part of their destiny.

Carlisle pretended so well, even when she finally happened across him.

He was outside, on the porch that led to his study, with the crumbled remains of a blueberry muffin in his palm. Curiously, she watched him from the open doors to the tearoom, wondering what sort of eccentric ritual the doctor could have possibly been performing outside on the porch with a single blueberry muffin.

Further puzzling her theories, he began to toss the crumbs into the grass before him – to one direction, then the other – an even spread across the grass, like he was sowing seeds to grow flowers.

He heard her breath by the doorway. He felt her eyes watching him.

Half of his body was sparkling in the sunbeams as he turned to her and smiled – a smile so carelessly charming and so recklessly adoring that she had forgotten all about the mutilated pastry in his hand. Then he spoke to her.

"The owner of the town bakery has a wife who is a little too generous to us doctors. She always brings me too much bread on the weekends," he chuckled with a fond tilt of his head. "I'll usually give some to my patients if I can, but once in a while I like to feed the birds."

_He was feeding the birds. _

Esme had to wonder if Carlisle realized that every single thing he did was altruistic to an almost ridiculous degree. If he could not give bread to his patients, he gave it to the birds. She imagined if he could not give it to the birds, he would give it to the mice, then perhaps the ants. He just could not keep himself from _giving. _

And she could not keep herself from loving him whenever she watched him give.

The birds had gathered surprisingly quickly on the ground where he had scattered the crumbs, as if they had known the precise time and place to come for food. Perhaps Carlisle had done it so often that they _did_ know where and when to come to him.

They hopped lightly about, pecking happily at the ground with sweet chirps of appreciation for the generous young man who watched them feed with a glowing grin. Esme studied Carlisle as he watched the birds, and a strange, heavy pressure set in over her lungs.

He glanced back at her where she watched him from between the doors. His smile had lost some of its blinding strength, but his dimples were still there, one kissing each of his smooth cheeks while he gazed at her contentedly. His eyes were somehow both fiery and gentle at once, and for one startling instant, his gaze landed somewhere below her neck. Esme's heart showed off with a twirl deep inside her, and everything felt cramp and warm and quivery, and slightly uncomfortable.

Whatever he had seen had caused his golden eyes to flicker, and his hands to find shelter in his pockets. But his soft, slumbery smile remained exactly the same.

Perplexed, Esme allowed her own gaze to slide slowly down to her chest…and she realized that, all along, her hand had been pressed to her heart.

It hurt her to have to turn away from him with a half-hearted smile. It hurt her to have to send herself into the house when she would rather be spending every second by his side. It hurt. But it had to be done.

For so much time spent in a frantic dither, Esme found herself exhausted into a depression. The initial excitement over her situation had parted curtains to the problem that lie behind it. She now had to _do _something about it. Something had to be changed.

It was dangerously tempting, thinking of what it might be like after it was all over. If she were somehow able to find the courage, and confront him with her confessions, her world would be a different place. Instead of every force being against her, every force would be beside her, in her power.

She imaged the splendid torture she had been made to go through would give out beneath her feet, and there in its place, she would be free. The wonders around her would sparkle before her eyes – the heat of the sun and the song of the birds and the scent of the flowers would all remain, unchanged, as they were before. But if she had his love, they would be so very different. Exactly the same, and vastly altered at once.

_If she had his love. _

It was amazing, how preposterously myopic her life's eyes had become for this one glaring goal on the center of her horizon. She was fixated.

Carlisle was a graceful sort of eccentric, wildly wonderful, and marvelously mysterious. He was the one blue stone among all the brown ones at the bottom of the stream. He was the one sunny day in a month full of rain storms. He was the eye of the hurricane, the very end of the tunnel, the very tip of the mountain. A calm wave in a turbulent sea, a cirrus cloud amidst the cumulus. The star made of seeds found between two halves of an apple.

Until now he had been unattainable. He was the one she would always want_, _when wanting became all she could do. Without him, everything withered and rotted and went out of tune. Everything wept gray tears and shrunk into the earth like nothing mattered anymore.

When he even so much as walked down the cobblestone path toward the road, away from the house, away from her, she wanted to run after him. The wind seemed to scold her for letting him leave, the trees were gaping at her in shock, the blades of grass always fluttered in his direction as he walked past them, as if they were longing to grip his ankles and keep him from going too far.

She wanted to swim through his mind like a minnow in a hollow place, to be that teasing tickle in every one of his thoughts. To _affect _him as the sunlight affects vegetation. She wanted to be seen as a light in his darkness, a spark of fulfillment in the dreary rain of his days.

The thought of him_ needing _her was downright corrupt in the way it thrilled her. If seeing her from the corner of his eye was enough to make his heart leap skyward; if hearing her voice when all else was quiet was enough to make his ears tingle with joy; if feeling her agony was enough to make him weep for the world and all its shortcomings... then she would be satisfied.

She wanted _nothing _but _him. _

She wanted him to show her every last speck of dust he owned in his house and explain to her the fascinating story behind its origins. She wanted him to show her everything he owned, damn it all. And she wanted him to talk to her, about anything at all, for hours and hours so she could bathe in the blessed waves of his voice.

She wanted to pick him apart, and dissect him, and see how he worked inside, and then sew him back together again. She wanted to know everything about him – what Bible passage was his favorite, and what songs made him cry, and what sorts of things made him laugh, and didn't he think Lake Cordial was a ridiculous name for a lake? And why did he have a habit of curling his hand against his hip when he wasn't holding anything, and did he remember what it felt like to sleep, and did he ever daydream about indecent things like she sometimes did, and what was the name of the jealous demon who had stolen his wings?

She only wanted to be the one to embrace him every night and every morning, to curl up against him while he wrote in his journal, to offer her ears for his every longing secret, to place a flurry of chaste butterfly kisses on his bare thighs...

She thought it might be wonderful to sneak up behind him and straighten his collar while he was hunched in concentration at his desk. She thought it might be fascinating to clutch his coat and kiss him with abandon when he came home from the hospital each morning. She thought it might be incredible to have him lie beside her in bed with the sheets pulled up to his shoulders while he stared into her eyes. She thought it might be intoxicating to be the center of _his _universe. This man. This tormenting eccentricity of a specimen. This doctor. This vampire. This Carlisle Cullen.

She wanted him. Sweet Jesus. She _needed _him.

Like air, like water, like blood. Like life.

How thrilling to know that there _was _a solution to this torment. There was something she could do, something she could control to some extent in the clockwork cogs of her destiny. Should she bind herself to this man and trust that his love was prepared to take her in return; she could own this world and all its power.

But this power seemed so unreal, so out of her reach. If she could pluck the stars from the sky she would have done it by now. These things were impossible. And she was left, beside herself in doubt, lonelier than she ever had been in her life.

Whenever Esme was feeling lonely, she would try to talk to God.

Whenever she had to talk about things she could not tell God, she would talk to the sun.

The sun was an unbiased face. It was always shining and bright and warm, no matter how shameful her confessions were. The sun listened to everything she had to say without interruption. The sun did not judge her, and the sun did not shun her. The sun never gossiped behind her back.

But the one thing the sun could not do was offer her a solution to her problems. Only God could do that. But she could not tell God these things. She was not sure that God even listened to her anymore.

Esme folded her legs beneath her skirt and settled gracefully into the grass on the top of the highest hill she could find, making sure she looked presentable for her conversation with the sun. She had caught the sun at a bad time – just before it was about to set – so she had to hurry and explain her problem before the evening set in.

She sighed and turned her helpless gaze up to the magenta majesty of the horizon. It did not hurt now, to stare directly at the great star with her naked eyes, and for that she was grateful. It was awfully impolite to carry out a conversation when one did not make eye contact.

With a cautionary inspection of her surroundings to be sure she was alone, Esme quietly revealed to the sun her devastating situation.

She whispered of the frightening intensity of her love for the doctor, and her doubts that he would ever reciprocate such feelings. She confessed her fantasies and whimpered of the agony they had caused her. She admitted her disgrace at refusing to reconcile her recurring sins to God.

She begged the sun to give her answers, just this once. If there ever were a dilemma so exhausting and agonizing she could scarcely continue living, it was the one she was trapped within now.

She listened with her sensitive ears for a long while, waiting for an answer – any answer – and counting the seconds before the sun would sink below the valley and disappear. And she didn't even know if it would be back in the morning.

The sun was just a rim of glowing color now, a peeking pink halo over the vast stretch of land before her. She folded her hands into a fervent prayer and cast her tearless eyes to the ground, unable to watch the sun abandon her again.

_At least let me know which is the right choice. What should I do? Where should I go?_

_I am so lost without your guiding light..._

She caught her lip between her teeth and reluctantly lifted her gaze to the horizon to watch her hope slip away with the sun as it bid her an unceremonious farewell.

Esme bowed her head and sobbed into her flawless hands, still linked in a frozen prayer.

She retreated into her shell of a body and waited for the darkness to once again envelop her heavy heart.

But there was no darkness this evening, even after the passing of the sun. There was instead, a peculiar light, an unattainable glow that welled up inside of her, opening her soul to the words that were waiting to wake her.

No longer able to weep, she turned her head up and away from the West, where the East had been calling her all along.

_Tell him._

The voice that so softly answered her plea was a familiar one, but it did not belong to the sun.

It belonged to God.

* * *

**Thanks so much to everyone who is reading! You can see Carlisle's POV of this chapter in Behind Stained Glass, chapter 35: "Here I Leave My Heart."**


	57. Those Unheard Are Sweeter

**Chapter 57:**

**Those Unheard Are Sweeter**

* * *

_Tell him._

The words beat against her like a persistent tide. They withered, then they came back strong. They taunted her ears like the delicate notes of a song that urgently needed to be finished.

Still as a doll lying in the grass, Esme watched the sun drop behind the horizon. The night swelled, fragrant and dense, all around her. Twilight stretched across the sky in layers of violet silk that reminded her strongly of the sheets on her bed upstairs. Her limbs shivered with the wish to be covered again. Some part of her missed the days when she would dream about him, alone in her bedroom, behind the curtains of her canopy. Now she stretched out in the grass, staring at the sky, trying to contain the sparkling hot passion that kept building inside of her – a chore she quickly realized she was pursuing in vain.

_Oh, night._

Esme remembered a time when the night had been so familiar to her. But it seemed the night had changed as her life became more complicated. When she shared the night with Carlisle, every hour of darkness was deeper, filled with exotic beauty. She had spoiled herself by spending so many nights with him in his study. Now when she wanted to enjoy the night on her own, it was nearly impossible.

She was nervous, on edge, confused. The direction of her emotions was quite clear, but her destination was not. She knew what she wanted, but getting there would not be easy.

She thought about going back into the house to see him right now. Would things carry on as they had for the past few weeks, or would that unspoken tension rise up between them? Something scarily significant had shifted for each of them, and they both seemed equally aware of it, which made everything even more deliciously awkward.

Esme realized her worst fears in the moment she'd left him behind, feeding the birds on the porch earlier that evening. Her obvious feelings for him were challenging their friendship.

The more she thought about it, the more Carlisle's reaction made sense to her. He did not want to risk spoiling it any further by acknowledging her feelings with words. In confidence, his gaze had penetrated her heart deeply enough that no words needed to be spoken. His awareness hurt her as much as it relieved her. At the very least, he had some idea that she was infatuated with him. At the very most... he reciprocated a small part of that feeling for _her._

She thrashed on the grass and whimpered at the stars. The thought of Carlisle experiencing these kinds of feelings for _her_ was beautifully absurd. Yet... it was not entirely unthinkable. No man she had ever met harbored as much unkempt passion as Carlisle did. She did not even need to read those hidden journals he kept, or see his secret oil paintings, or watch him carve detailed sculptures out of wood to know how passionate he was. Surely a man like him had more on his mind. Surely a man so shy on the outside, yet so bold on the inside, had rapids of desire flowing within his heart.

She could only imagine what centuries of repression had done to make him this way. Waiting so long to unleash his passion would surely ripen it far beyond what was appropriate...

Years of isolated agony must make the force of that eruption ten times greater.

The blades of grass shuddered in the wind, caressing the bare skin on her arms and legs like thin, cool flames. But the fire in her belly was wild with want.

All thoughts of reaching out to Carlisle tonight were out of the question. Visiting him in her current state would likely result in a violent assault on his moral composure.

Already her fingers were itching to pick apart the buttons of his collar. It was dangerous to even think about it, but her mind was so easily distracted by a simple suggestion. Ironic though it may have been, Esme often thought of Carlisle's collar as the gate to his hidden inner self. Each button, she thought, was like the key to the next layer, all leading to the man he was inside.

With all three buttons of his collar sealed tightly, he was a doctor.

He was elegant and refined, with a gentle authority that made everyone around him listen and trust. He was cautious in voicing his decisions, but his confidence was inarguable. He had no doubts in the world of medicine. He was strong and certain and smart. Regal as a king, but humble as a stable boy.

With one button undone, he was a deep thinker, a philosopher.

He was a noble young pilgrim, searching through his personal library. His voice was hoarse as he whispered to himself eccentrically about what he was looking for, pacing about the candlelit shelves of his study, his necktie askew and the cuffs of his sleeves turned out to give his hands more room to search. He buried himself in a forest of books, and he would read enough to make any other man's head spin. It was just a chip in his sanity that caused him to ask unanswerable questions and probe religious metaphors, but it was his own unique way of exercising his mind, expanding his horizons, attempting to bend the unbreakable.

With two buttons undone, he was a writer.

He did not have to be at his desk to write. He was not the scholar anymore. He did not feed off the ideas of other men, but instead dictated his own. Here he would likely be curled up by a window somewhere, his journal open in his lap. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his hair was disheveled, and his shirt was untucked. He pressed the end of his fountain pen into his lower lip and closed his eyes as he pondered his next words, seeking poetic perfection in the recesses of his subconscious.

With three buttons undone, he became an artist – a vigorous, untamed youth with unmentionably intense dreams.

He was virile in body, and potent in instinct. His sleeves were not only rolled up to his elbows, they were torn in places, worn so much that the thin cotton looked as if it could melt from his body heat. In this state, he looked stronger than ever, yet in his face there was at least one fragile feature that revealed his inner child. When his hands began to move, to sculpt, to create, the rest of the world disappeared around him. His eyes were a hazy mix of calm and crazed, his breaths were luxuriously ragged, his thoughts were tortured and unhinged.

What lay beyond the third button? No matter how many times Esme had asked herself this question, she never dared to do more than guess.

Pure and rough. Honest and wild. Distressed and lost, beautiful and lustful.

It took a lot to provoke Carlisle in the world she knew; but in this dark, concealed, secretive world, one touch threw him into a frenzy. He was not shy about sinning. He did not settle for anything less than utter satisfaction. He lashed out when he felt something was unfair. In this world he was not afraid to purr like a lion, protecting his pride. In this world he allowed himself to savor every spare drop of blood in the hunt, and pursue more when he still thirsted. In this world he tore all the clothes off his body and dove bare-skinned into the warm waters of nature.

Esme desperately, with every fiber of her being, wanted to be a part of _this_ world.

Because once all the buttons were undone, Carlisle was, like every other man on God's great earth, a son of Adam. Whether he was merely bare-chested or stripped to his very soul, she could not fathom a reason to believe he was immune to the basest human needs.

Human or vampire, it did not matter to her. If she needed him, then it must be just as possible that he needed her.

Esme heaved a long, shaky sigh and turned on her side in the grass.

Making speculations always made her feel emptier inside. Sometimes it was torturously painful, like feeling someone scratch at an already smarting burn.

Esme was never before so nervous to welcome the morning.

All night she had wondered about her future; how soon it would begin, whether or not she had the courage to change it. But a woman could only wonder for so long.

Just as she watched the sun set, she watched it start to rise when it finally came full circle round the world.

The clouds split open as the heat melted the mist. Just before the golden rays appeared, tiny bursts of pink light blossomed behind the leftover clouds, like roses blooming for spring. The scene was indeed beautiful, but even that did not ease her anxiety. What she had to do today was so much more terrifying than anything she'd ever remembered doing before. She knew that her only chance at happiness was to finally allow herself to _trust _again.

She had to trust herself. She had to trust God. She had to trust... Carlisle_._

Walking back to the house that morning, Esme felt almost frightened.

She opened the door, caught his scent, and felt the nerves strain all through her body. He was still in his study.

Edward's schoolbag was gone from the foyer, the only sign that he had gone for the day. He'd left his jacket hanging on the stair post; at the last minute he must have realized it would be too warm out for any human to need a jacket that day. For a brief moment Esme pouted over not having the chance to say goodbye to him before he left for school.

Bright limbs of sunlight dripped through the foyer windows from the very crack of dawn, as if they were trying to cheer her up. It seemed too early to be seeing sunshine already, but somehow it pierced its way into the world.

Perhaps it was a sign of renewed hope.

She grasped the good thought before it could fly away from her and walked bravely towards the doctor's study. She paused to listen through the thick door, at first hearing nothing more than the quick caress of an ink pen on paper.

That sound was so familiar to her now, it was like home.

He was almost always writing.

The scrape of his pen carried on for a few more seconds before it stopped. The clink of glass. The shuffle of papers inside a drawer. The soft puff of breath as he blew out a candle. Then, a low, thoughtful hum – the sound was sweet and deep, like warm chocolate.

Tapping his fingers on the desk.

Pushing his chair back.

Standing up.

Pacing in front of the windows.

_He was in his tortured artist state for sure._

She wondered for a thrilling moment if all three buttons of his collar were undone.

It couldn't hurt to find out.

So she opened the door and invited herself inside.

Naturally he had to pick today of all days to be dressed like a perfect fairytale hero. His legs were clad in pale, sand-colored trousers that firmly flattered the strong angles of his hips. On his chest, a stark white tunic that fit him far too loosely for her fragile sanity.

Her assumptions concerning buttons had been wrong.

The shirt he wore today did not even _have _buttons.

In fact, it looked like it may have been sewn a few centuries ago. The floury white collar was a tad askew, leaving his right shoulder almost completely bare. She wanted so badly to reach over and adjust it. It flustered her every time she looked at it, not because the fabric was obviously not supposed to fall that way, but because she was tragically distracted by the generous area of marble skin that it left uncovered.

Carlisle was beyond beautiful with his bare feet, and his collar turned out, and his hair slightly ruffled and uncombed. He paced methodically before the bright windows of his study, looking like romance personified – like a prince who had lost his crown, an angel on a frantic search for his halo.

The least he had done was forget to wear his stethoscope around his neck. It would not have been fitting for him today. He did not look like a doctor at all in the clothes he was wearing. He was less confined, less buttoned-up. In fact, Esme had never seen her doctor looking quite so at ease with himself, so loose. In the place of his stethoscope that morning was the slim golden cross that lay around his wonderfully naked neck. But it most certainly did not make him look like a doctor. He looked like some kind of evangelical vagabond. There was a spiritual regality about his every move that made her soul shiver with delight.

That cross positively glowed when Carlisle wore it. It truly hurt her to look at it.

It hurt even more when he looked at her.

She had never seen his eyes so loaded with secret thoughts before. Shining shapes and silken shadows swam through the endless pits of gold and black. His lashes blinked protectively, but that did not keep her from seeing the storm behind his gaze.

He paused beside the window and watched her settle into her second home with ease. She took the chair across from his desk, thinking frantically of how she could even begin to phrase what she wanted to tell him...

When she did not give reason for her sudden entry, Carlisle carried on in understood silence, starting up his pacing again like nothing had even interrupted him in the first place.

_Fascinating._

Something was going on here. On any other day he would have, at the very least, greeted her with something other than a prolonged stare. She did not have to ask whether it had something to do with her feelings. Now it was very clear to her why he was being so silent. He must have been even more confused than she was this morning.

His body language told her as much. For a man who usually possessed a keen sense of direction, Carlisle seemed lost in the familiar space of his own study. His footsteps were uneven, not steady. They varied between light and heavy. His hands kept busy by straightening the curtains every so often. At first it looked casual, but then it began to look more sensual every time he did it. His fingers brushed the heavy red velvet with purposeful care, using his strength to elicit sighs from an inanimate object.

As he repeatedly touched the curtains, Esme saw a ghosting of pink on his chiseled cheeks, an impossible blush of color that she swore could not have been in her imagination.

She knew that her watching him in perfect silence must have made him anxious, but she could do nothing else just yet.

As the minutes pressed on, their eyes would pass along each other, knowing and pleading. They were both perfectly silent, but their gazes were all but _singing _with conflicting desires.

He said two words to her that morning. At precisely fifty-two seconds and half past seven, they came tumbling out of his exquisite lips and into her ear.

"_Right here."_

She'd asked him where the key to the attic was.

He immediately put an end to his mindless pacing, pulled open the bottom drawer to his desk, and did not let his fingers brush hers as he handed her the crippled old skeleton key. His eyes grasped something deep inside of her as she received his final symbol.

The mottled brass felt cold and light in the center of her palm. It burned her skin, just as his eyes burned her heart.

She mumbled a thank you, and those were the last and only words they had said to each other.

She spent a few hours in the attic, soaking up the loneliness for however long she could take it. The first hour was wasted laying flat on her back on the musty floorboards while she watched the sunlight make sad streaks through the dust-caked oval window. Occasionally a spider would creep across the slanted ceiling, and she might envy it for knowing which direction it was headed. No matter how long she spent cramped up in the attic, she would never reach any kind of sudden enlightenment. She would never know which direction she should take. It had been a poorly designed test, and she only found herself sulking down the creaky staircase with her dress covered in dust and cobwebs in her hair when it was over.

So she decided to bathe.

It was arousing enough being in the same house with Carlisle while she disrobed herself, but it was even worse when she let herself lay in the bathtub for an hour, listening so closely to him that she could hear the tiny muscles in his throat constrict every time he swallowed.

All the while, she held tightly to the tiny brass key he had given her. It rested in her hand, under the water, safe where no one else could find it.

With her tightly closed fist, she let her knuckles travel the length of her body as she lay vulnerable in the tub. Was she terrible because she could not keep herself from envisioning his touch in place of her own? Was she sinful because she would never stop imagining his loving whispers in her ear? Was she damned by her daydreams, and fooled by her fabrications?

Once she started to imagine the things that might happen if he were to suddenly throw open the door to her bathroom, she knew it was time to drain the water.

Like always, she watched the water grow more and more shallow around her, just like her doubts.

At the peak of her desperation, Esme wished that Carlisle would simply abduct her. She wished he would break down the doors to her bedroom, and scoop her bare, wet body into his arms, and toss her onto the bed, and tear that flimsy white shirt off his chest, and shred those sinfully snug trousers off his legs, and...

The water gurgled contemptuously as the tub was suddenly empty beneath her, and she shivered in chagrin. She heaved herself over the ceramic rim and snatched a towel against her body before she could continue her halted fantasy.

She dried herself off, dressed into a simple white dress, and sat in a chair by her bedroom window, waiting with her chin in the palm of her hand. If she was going to wait all day long, she might as well be comfortable.

There was nothing worthy to watch aside from the swaying of whimsical amber grass and peach-colored clouds churning like cream and cotton on the horizon. It was all clear blue skies and hope out there, nothing like what she was feeling inside. It could go on forever, really. Every day could be like this... just the same monotonous episode of hour after helpless hour. Waiting for nothing.

Oh, this kind of waiting was torture. In a sense, she was waiting for _herself_– she was waiting to be _ready_ – and this was far worse than waiting for someone or something else.

It seemed silly to her how people longed for control – they pined desperately for it – yet once they were given control, they wished to be free of it. Because having control only made everything _their_ responsibility.

Esme understood this now.

So many times she thought she had the courage. She grasped at it, hurried down the stairs, ready to spill her secret, and the fear would block her way. It was a monster lurking the halls – a spiny green crocodile that thrust open its jaws for her when she came to the final step.

So she ran back up those stairs, every time feeling more exhausted until she had all but given up.

She hid behind the canopy of her bed like a defiant child, rocking back and forth with her chin between her knees, hugging her ankles.

He was so close. She could hear him, even now – his lovely ambiance in the study below – the scattering, rustling, pacing, sighing sounds he made. They were a gentle percussion to a lovely song she knew so well. The sleek brush of his calligraphy scratching on paper made her head toss and turn on her pillow; his every breath made her tremble.

An unforeseen number of minutes could have rested between this agony and her _having _him. If only she had that courage.

Because he _was _here. He _was _breathing. And so was she.

They were breathing together – nothing but wood grain and rafters and carpet and tiles separating them. He could hear her breathe, and she could hear him breathe. This was the way it always was, but now she felt the tension between the two clashing patterns. She was tentative to allow her lungs to fall into sync with his because this would call attention to the sounds. He would stop breathing altogether and begin a new rhythm – either faster or slower to throw her off course. As if breathing at her exact pace were somehow...invasive.

She leaned over the bay window and watched the sundial's sluggish shadow creep around its marble disk as the hours dragged by. All of this breathing was making her lightheaded. These thoughts of _what could be_ kept taunting her. Her eyes slickened as they passed over the bed, which had been stripped and readied countless times for nothing. No moment would ever come when she would share it with him.

Reality was not that kind.

She choked on a bitter laugh and ran her hands through her hair.

He had to have wondered _what_ _on earth _she was doing up here, every time another heap of satin slithered off the mattress. She tossed the covers onto the carpet and made a small ocean around her, too shallow to swim through. But when they were on that bed, she _could_ swim through them. She had drowned in them too many times.

She wanted Carlisle to rescue her from drowning.

No. She wanted him to drown _with_ her.

Every so often, Esme's mind would wander sadly over to the drawer of her bedside table where the book of South American maps, and the white sculpted swan, and the beautiful music box, and the angel-winged seashell from England called to her from inside. She would wonder for a while what love meant; whether the man who had cared enough to give her such gifts had loved her. Not as his _family, _but as a _woman._

Was that not reason enough for him to give her these things? Was he truly giving her his heart, piece by piece, as he gave her those tiny gifts? Had she been too blind all along to see it?

Reaching into her pocket, she found the little brass skeleton key he had given her that morning. It was just a humble key to the attic – there was nothing special about it, nothing secret. But it was his final symbol. He had told her this for a reason. She just didn't know why.

Carefully, Esme turned around and approached her bedside table with the intention of visiting her precious collection of Carlisle's gifts. She had to add his final symbol to the drawer with the rest of them. She had to see them, had to feel them, had to let the tips of her fingers ghost over them to be sure they were still real.

That was when she saw it.

A single red rose lay on her nightstand. The sight of it inspired a beat in her dormant heart, and the sunlight seemed to dance around it, making it glow like soft scarlet fire.

She wondered for a moment how she had not noticed the scent of that rose, which now seemed far too striking to miss. Its familiar fragrance filled the entire room, enchanting to the senses. All she could do was stare at it, without a guess as to how it got there.

There was only one person who would put a rose on her nightstand. One pair of feet bold enough to pass through her bedroom door. One pair of hands tender enough to place the flower so gently beside her bed.

Though it seemed impossible to imagine Carlisle leaving a rose in her room, she had only to breathe in the evidence of his scent and know it for certain. She picked up the stem and buried her nose in the sweet red petals, accepting the gesture as a polite acknowledgment of her feelings.

So this was the reason behind his awkward behavior that morning.

A sad smile crossed her lips. She had known all along he would not be ready to accept her heart until she had fulfilled her promise to follow him in his faith. Perhaps this was his quiet, gentlemanly way of saying "_someday_." Esme could understand this. Only time would tell if she could earn the undying love of Carlisle Cullen.

In the meantime, he had given her yet another precious gift. One more she must add to her collection.

Holding the key in one hand, and the rose in the other, Esme opened her nightstand drawer.

The drawer was filled to the brim with scraps of stark white paper. Some were folded, some were crumpled, and some were halfway tucked into envelopes.

None of them had been there when she last closed that drawer.

Her chest tightened.

With tremulous fingers, she reached in and turned one piece of paper over.

It was smothered with words, from margin to margin, written in startling peacock blue ink.

The rose slipped from her fingers. The little brass key clattered to the floor.

She knew these papers were from _him._

But her eyes could only skim through the words, disjointed and confused. She desperately tried to piece them together with all the sense left within her.

They just could not have been real! These words... This carefully crafted calligraphy, liquid letters of the alphabet placed just so.

Bright stars of passion burst inside her chest as she caught sight of a word here and a word there, and they made no sense when she read them, but they somehow spoke the story of a man's tormented soul.

Her mind was overflowing with shining blue blots of ink, and striking words that were speaking to _her_... directly _to her. _On each piece of paper, the top line was poignantly addressed, _Dear Esme, Darling Esme, Sweet Esme, My Esme_...

_His_ Esme.

She tried to read just one. She tried so hard. But her eyes were coated with venom, and her hands were trembling too violently to hold the papers still.

His words were still leaping off those scattered pages. _His words_... these hidden affections of his heart.

_Do you feel the forceful caress of my eyes upon you...?_

_Do you ever wonder what might happen if we let the flames of our fires touch…?_

_I wish to share these cold nights with you..._

_...to feel your impressionistic fingers dancing feverishly over my flesh..._

_Let me be the keeper of your rose..._

_Let me drown in you..._

What was he saying? Oh, what was he trying to say to her with these recklessly written words?

Their message could not be what she assumed.

It could not.

He meant something else.

He was not speaking of _that._

These notes had been placed in the bedside drawer of the wrong woman.

Carlisle was not offering this to _her..._

Blindly, Esme gathered the notes into her hands, filling herself with the scent of the ink and the weight of his unreal words. Somehow she rose to her feet; somehow she found her balance. Somehow her heart was pounding, though it was impossible.

Outside the sun was high and mighty, in the very apex of the sky. The late afternoon heat came spilling through the open doors of her balcony with an intrusive breeze of spring pollen and the chirping chortles of birds.

Pretty scents of anticipation that were never real until now filled her from foot to heart, and she had to do something – anything – to tame the reckless orgy of emotions that maddened her every second.

Certifiably lost from her own senses, Esme broke the chains of reason and flew down those stairs.

This time, when the crocodile opened its jaws for her, she trampled it without fear. This time, shards of colored light came down through the stained glass window in the foyer, blessing her with courage, and they chased her into the hall.

With her arms full of the crumpled letters, and her chest heaving for breath, Esme found herself standing in the familiar threshold to Carlisle's study.

He was not looking at her. He was just sitting there, behind his desk, with his hand around the Bible, and that distracted little half-smile on his lips. The sleeve of his shirt had fallen even lower on his shoulder. He sat further back than he usually did, more relaxed, not trying so hard to be presentable. One of his elbows rested against the edge of his desk, and his hand was curled up against his forehead. Some of the sunlight that streamed through the curtains behind him cast a gauzy glow around his uncombed hair, highlighting a few delicate strands that strayed rebelliously from the waves at the back of his neck. Every scent she had grown to associate with this room, with _Carlisle__,_ came blasting against her like a taunting aromatic army – polished mahogany, and cinnamon-scented candles, and old books, and burning incense. Christmas and springtime and holiness and passion.

The fragrant assault almost made her turn right back around and make a mad dash for the stairs. But he still wasn't looking at her.

Somehow, he did not even realize she was there.

She said his name without even hearing it. But she knew she had said it because his eyes turned up at once to look at her.

"What is it?"

She would have laughed at his question if she had the strength. It was too absurd for words. She wanted to scream at him.

_Oh, Carlisle. You know too well what _it _is. The room is practically pulsing with _it_. You and I are all but consumed by_ it.

It _could mean the end of "you and I"... and the beginning of "_us_."_

Wordlessly, she let her armful of letters flutter to the ground.

Carlisle watched the snowstorm of paper around her feet. He saw that her hands were smeared with blue ink. He saw that she was speechless. He saw that her eyes were still brimming with the very contents of his heart.

"Esme," he said her name, his voice so hoarse with passion that it frightened her. Then he stood up, looking so much the image of a _man, _so full of light and heat and love, he was like the sun.

Because she could not think of any words whose power would match those he had written in his letters, Esme settled for something much more succinct and precise and powerful. Having all the confirmation she now needed, she whispered it, softly enough that it could have been a mere afterthought released to the gentle ears of the air.

"I love you."

Not a second after she had finished the declaration, she was off and running, speeding and sprinting in desperation out of the house and into the sunlit forest. The door dematerialized when she pushed it open; the grass was shredded to tiny green splinters as she sped across it. Every tree she whipped past turned to tissue in her peripheral.

She had to say it. And now she had to get away.

Away from him. Away to nowhere.

She hadn't the faintest idea why she was running. It was all instinct – all primal energy. She was a restless newborn again, and she was _high_ on the feeling.

Her vampire speed never before felt like such a God-send. It was like she was running with the earth as it turned, gaining on the sunset as she fast-forwarded toward the West. She was racing the world.

And it was like the world itself was trembling beneath her feet, thrumming with every footstep, sharing in her utter terror. The critters of the forest scattered in fear as she sped past, and she had no thirst in her throat for their life, putting miles behind her in minutes. She could barely believe the words she had let slip from her mouth had been real, tangible sounds. And now her entire body was positively sizzling with the thrill of releasing such a deeply kept confession.

The gravity of what she had just done suddenly slammed into her from all around. She was pulling up the reigns but nothing was stopping, and her momentum just kept climbing, and everything was either a mountain or a ravine. She was on the edge.

It both frightened and comforted her, knowing that she never _needed_ to return. She could make a life for herself out here in the wilderness, she could run forever until she came back to this same spot, having gone full circle about the earth, and _his_ life would continue on, smooth as silk without her in it.

She could abandon him with her love and he could keep that... a little reminder of who she was, what she had felt for him. She never needed to see him again. This was a perfect parting farewell.

The path grew softer beneath her feet, first powdery, then marshy. She was running through water.

On the other side, she could still see grand old Chartercrest in the distance, its windows shimmering radiantly in the blinding sunlight. The back doors to the house were wide open.

But she had left through the front door.

She was being chased.

Not bothering to lift her skirt, Esme burst her way through the warm waters of Lake Cordial, her legs pulsing easily against the resistance of the gentle waves.

She ran.

Perhaps he hadn't heard her.

She ran.

Perhaps he didn't believe her.

She ran.

Perhaps he...

She heard it then.

He said her name.

And she stopped.

She listened, wondering if she had only imagined it – some last somber melody born from her intangible memories.

But no. It was real.

He was calling her. _His voice_. His heavenly voice, _calling for her_. Full and burning with genuine _need. _It was inconceivable.

He said her name only once, but it echoed in her mind a million times over like an endless song, stabbing her heart with each tender syllable.

The air surrounding her was an entity in that moment – she could feel it, gentle but determined, pushing her to glance behind. With a breathless sigh of surrender, she turned around to face him.

And he stood there, in a threshold of sweeping willow branches, both arms raised heraldically on either side of his body against the trees, like wings where the luminous white fabric clung to his strong, graceful arms. He was awash in a single beam of sunlight that seeped through the thick foliage above, glistening all over like an ivory angel, that ever-present halo about his blond head as he stared at her with unfathomable passion.

His expression was utterly _helpless_, yet his eyes were so very enlightened, as the gaze of one finally resurrected from ignorance should look. For once she did not envy the pure gilded brightness of his gaze, she only marveled at it.

"Marry me."

The soft words of his impossible request spilled forth clearer than bells, as the breeze ruffled his clothing and caressed his sun-kissed locks.

An endless siege of crippling chills ran through her body, weakening her to the very core. She could do nothing but stare at him in wide-eyed astonishment, refusing to believe her ears. She hadn't the strength to either reject or consent to his request. But she hadn't needed to.

He stepped forward, one arm still balanced against the tree, and the look on his face was shyly approaching elation as she stood, momentarily speechless, before him.

"Yes."

Oh, that was such a lovely word. Affirming, accepting, agreeing.

_Yes._

Such a small word it was, but it could solve her every problem in just one humble syllable.

And it was so easy to say, even as her entire body went into it – the very essence of her existence made it so much heavier, yet it seemed to float on wings.

She loved it.

She loved _him._

And he must have loved her.

He covered the yards between them in a splashing instant, and took her blindly into the blessed sanctuary of his arms, into a fierce, life-dependent embrace that defied the very concept of love itself. The need was coursing through him. She could feel it violently pulsing all across his chest. She was startled when she first felt it.

She thought it was his heart beating.

He lifted her up toward the sky as if she weighed nothing at all, then he brought her down against him so that she could feel every inch of him crushing every inch of her. He did not let her feet touch the water, as if he feared it would swallow her like quicksand. She was only too relieved to be free from any ties to the earth.

His arms became a tight, tiny world of her own, and she whispered the word over and over against his ear as he pinned her to his chest.

"Yes, yes, yes, yes..."

Buried in the curve of her neck, she could feel his heavy, labored breathing where his chin pressed into her shoulder, a fragile sob chiming softly in his throat. His arms wound even further around her, trapping her possessively until her legs were forced to wrap around his waist. His hands held her so tightly that they felt connected to her, a magnetic phenomenon that had no logical source. It simply existed in its own painful beauty, force undefined.

Somehow, Carlisle managed to right his head to hover above hers, arms still locked around her like a warm marble vice. His forehead was pressed against hers, his every breath a swell of sweet air that she could taste as it gushed between her parted lips. Esme's stream of _yes'_s melted away as her wistful eyes fell upon his tender lips. She nearly lost all comprehension as those lips began to move.

"I've never been this_...close_ to anyone before," he wept ardently, his soft voice breaking on the words. And even in a whisper, she felt the thrilling vibrations of his voice in her throat, and the tips of her fingers, and somehow, in the pit of her stomach. His words were swathed in an ache so tangible, she felt it sinking fast in the center of her being. There was such heart-crushing sadness in his vulnerable confession; she was tempted for a moment to whisper back, _'Neither have I.'_

But then she realized...

He meant _physically_.

Her breath stopped short as she felt the tips of her toes touch the water by his knees. Suddenly her entire body was tingling. Because she knew what he would do to her now...

She could sense it in the way his breathing had changed. An exquisite, unsteady pattern – thrilled, soft, erratic. His hands found their home on either side of her face, and gently but surely, he forced her to look up at him.

It was just a flicker she saw of his face, gazing down, so deeply _into _her. There were tiny gold stars in the burnished windows of his eyes, a delicate glaze of century-ripened tears that could only threaten to spill onto her cheeks. His lashes were like amber threads of silk, sliding into a decisive slumber as he slowly tilted his head, poised at a willing angle to give her what she had always given him permission to give.

And finally, the swelling, trembling tension transformed into submissive bliss as he joined their lips, kissing her. Kissing _her_ for the first time.

Her world did not crash, and she did not die. But her deepest fears were silenced in the moment that his lips innocently discovered hers.

There were no chimes from heaven, no earth-shattering revelations. It was so much more profound, so far removed from anything that would call upon such pomp and circumstance. It was instead deathly quiet, absurdly _warm_, and absolutely still – a startling shock of inner peace and crippling completeness.

All the fairytales said that everything around her would cease to exist when this moment came. But that did not happen at all. Everything around her only came more _alive_ than it ever had before. Every sound, every fleck of dust, every color, every nuance in the earth around them and within them had such _purpose_.

And finally, Esme felt her own purpose, here in Carlisle's arms. She was not a mistake, she was not a monster, she was not empty inside.

In one kiss, he had restored her faith. In one kiss, he had awakened her soul.

The heat that had once been a barricade between them was now their blanket; it swept around them, forcing them to share their bodies and their breath and their souls.

And when he slowly pulled away from her to look into her eyes, she was suffocated by the love she saw gleaming in their depths. With just one glance, she knew, Carlisle could banish every one of her worries.

"I love you, Esme."

It was barely the sound of his voice, or the way he looked as he said it that humbled her so intensely. It was more the _closeness_ of his body to hers, the exquisite chafing of proximity between them that staggered her to the core.

Because Carlisle had never been this close to her before. And he threatened her loneliness like nothing had threatened it before.

"The poem you slipped into my sketchbook on Christmas morning…" she whispered frantically, her eyes shining, her hands traveling all over his face and neck, "…you were the one who wrote it, weren't you?"

He was nodding before she had the chance to finish her sentence. "Yes, I was the one," he said, his voice weak but proud, bolder than sunlight. "Yes. Yes, I wrote it."

Every time he said the word "yes," she melted a little more inside.

Her fingers, still smeared with the ink from his letters, left faint, watery streaks of blue on his throat as she stroked his skin.

"And the letters? All of those letters?"

"One hundred," he confessed with a shudder. "I wrote one hundred of them. I saved only half. The others were burned."

A stunned sigh fled her lips as she touched his face obsessively, barely able to process his words while he held her fiercely in his arms.

"You have no idea how many nights I wanted to slip just one letter beneath your door... how much I tortured myself over it," he murmured into her ear, cheek pressed firmly to hers. "I've loved you since... Oh, I cannot even bear to think it..."

His voice cracked breathlessly, a beautiful bruise on his accent as his lips rained kisses across her forehead, some falling into her hair. Every time his lips touched her, her heart swelled painfully. Before it might have been punctured by the ribs that caged it, but now it had the strength to snap them straight across.

She tried to tell him the danger she was in, but her voice failed her as he again consumed her mouth with his. He crushed her against him, and opened his lips, and her tongue was baptized in his venom.

He could not steady her sobs for he was sobbing just as much. Their combined passions flowed feverishly between them as they kissed, and they could barely contain their decency.

She managed to whimper his name as his lips fled to the hollow of her throat. Her hands clutched his shoulders as his curious touch found the carved crescents on the side of her neck. Saying his name still felt like a sin, and as his tongue gently worked to consecrate every inch of her scarred flesh, she could scarcely think.

"I've needed you." She shuddered, clinging to him in weightless desperation as he held her high above the water. "I've needed you for _so long_..."

"Oh, my darling." His whisper was like a warm salve against her aching throat. "I shall never forgive myself."

His words did not make sense to her, but they sounded so catastrophically wonderful, uttered so close, so soft, so sincere.

A fresh storm of sobs rendered her limp in his arms. Her eyes dared to open, and finding his gaze too near, she could make out every fine golden blister in each iris. Every beautiful complexity in his eyes was magnified before her, open for her, like marigolds for the sun.

"Do you know how long I've wanted to tell you? Do you know how my heart aches whenever we are apart? How my soul thirsts for union with yours?" His murmured words were wrought with poetic passion, nearly unrecognizable from the gentle timbre she knew.

She barely realized that she was shaking her head until Carlisle lifted his hands to hold her cheeks still, staring straight into her eyes.

"You never knew," he marveled, stroking his strong fingers across her cheeks, his voice choking back sobs. "You never even guessed?" He sounded so heartbroken.

"How could I have?" she whispered, in a private war against the desire to break down and cry in his arms. "Your compassion has never changed, Carlisle. Since the beginning you were so impossibly kind to me, so caring for no reason. You've always been this way with me. You've always treated me with love. I'd never recognized it to be anything less..._never_..."

She trailed away on the very last word, leaving "_never_" to hover homelessly in the air between them. Carlisle's eyes were shining like fire.

"Stay with me. Forever, Esme." He pressed his face flush against hers as he pleaded, lips anointing every part of her within his reach. "Say you will be mine, always."

"Yes, always yours." She could scarcely remember the meaning of her own words. Repeating his declaration in half-ordered whispers, she willed the last waves of energy out of her body and melted into him, suspended from gravity and appending herself to a force much stronger. "I am yours, Carlisle."

He whimpered against her, a sheer breath of disbelief and delight as his lips trailed over her cheek. Every hope in her heart danced with a new warmth as he closed his eyes and cupped her chin with his tender fingers.

The gentleness in his kiss was downright violent; infinitely more erotic than one of greedy desperation would be. He had the power to strike her heart with the lightest touch before smothering her with a temper of reckless passion.

Even as he flooded her with love in its purest, rawest form, she feared that she would never find her fill. She was afraid, and in awe, and in complete disbelief. Numb, but with senses on fire.

Carlisle's passion, having been gagged for centuries, spilled into her freely with a force untamed. It was almost too much to bear. But beneath the strength of that passion, she could feel his control deep within, tenderly restraining his every desire, both base and desperate. He would not have her until they were bound in the eyes of God.

She knew this. She trusted this.

Locked together in a desperate embrace, they somehow sank to their knees in the water below. The gentle waves of Lake Cordial could do so little to tame their fervor. With a resounding splash they landed in a comfortable knot, sobbing and crying and laughing. Every emotion Esme had ever felt came crashing together in a thrilling combination that made her feel so _human._

Their bodies rubbed against one another, warm and wet and restless. Esme thought they may as well have been attached. To part with Carlisle at any point, no matter how insignificant the loss of contact, was enough to cause her real and true pain.

In that moment she was certain if she let him go, she would die.

He was hers now, and she would sooner be damned than give him up.

"Give me your hand," she heard him plead in the midst of their tangled limbs and frantic kisses.

When she first put forth her right hand, she was confused when he gently brushed it aside and firmly grasped her left hand instead.

Then she watched him reach into his pocket.

A faint golden glimmer winked at her from the palm of his hand, then a tiny flare of brilliant white light beamed into her eyes.

His sleeves slipped back down to his elbows, damp and wilting, leaving his forearms bare. Droplets of water slipped down his broad sculptor's arms, accentuating the deliberate direction of his reach. Then, his lean white fingers, strong and sure, wrapped so tightly around her hand, she felt her wrist begin to pulse from the pressure.

With infinite care, he parted her last two fingers and fitted a diamond ring securely over her knuckle. Both his thumbs pushed the ring slowly into place, until it could go no further.

She could feel his eyes on her, watching her as she stared at the priceless treasure he had just placed on her finger. She could not even manage a gasp.

A rose. Her final symbol.

It was no accident that the diamonds were arranged just so.

The fact that he had it in his pocket the entire time, that he had obviously been prepared for this moment, was all the more thrilling to her.

How long had he been planning this proposal without her knowledge? She could hardly begin to wonder.

As he stared at her breathlessly, a tiny drop of water rolled down the side of his cheek, like a perfectly placed tear.

Her lips collided with the irresistible curve of his jaw, and nipped their way greedily up the side of his face and down again until she found his mouth. Shy laughter and tearful sighs melted between them as they shared kiss after carefree kiss in the middle of the lake.

Esme still could not fathom how wonderful, how _good_ it felt to embrace Carlisle with all her strength. At last she did not have to hold anything back. At last she could allow the fierceness of her love for him to shine through. Her hands felt him as they never felt him before. She was aware of every movement of every muscle in every part of his body. Every blink of his eyes, every breath that filled his lungs.

To feel him now was not only to feel his physical body, but everything spiritual and emotional buried inside of him. If she could feel all of this just from embracing him, she could not even dare to imagine how it would feel when...

Like a swordsman drawing his blade straight through her, the sensation was more than she could withstand. Esme shuddered violently in the arms of her humble hero, furiously shedding all thoughts of what would happen now that they were… engaged.

Her new ring felt heavier and hotter with each passing second; like a tiny golden equator, it seemed to glow more brightly whenever he touched her finger.

He expected her to wear this thread of fire forever?

Suddenly his hands were buried in her hair, tugging her closer, stealing her breath. His mouth latched onto her neck, deliberate and consuming. She felt a shock tremble through her every time his tongue tasted the scar on her throat. In the midst of his elaborate kisses, he whispered obscenely tender words of adoration.

"I never knew love could be like this," he whispered, his voice burning in quiet flames. "I'd all but given up hope of finding it."

His lips were scorching by the time they reached her chin, and he paused, pulling away the barest of inches to stare at her face.

His deep golden eyes, which had once seemed like a vast barren desert of longing, now glowed with the unshakable certainty and hope of the sun.

"Don't say that," Esme hushed him, one finger precariously pressing his delicate lower lip. "Don't ever say that... You have me now. You have my love, Carlisle. All of it. Everything I am is for you."

He sighed in blissful amazement, a low whimper – raw and urgent.

Her soul took an effervescent breath, drawing in the goodness that surrounded him, absorbing the essence of his kind heart and the sweet tang of his hidden desires. His face was never more than a few inches away from hers as he held her, his hand pressed to the small of her back, the gentle pressure growing firmer with promise the longer he lingered. Butterflies were flapping like mad in her stomach at his slightest touch. He was so close, she could taste him.

His gentle fingertips lifted a curl of her hair away as she tilted her head back in welcome. He kissed her neck with a familiarity so fierce, it filled every bone in her body with a tingling heat. His breath was hot and rushed, and every place he touched awakened with a tender jolt. Light filled the dark spaces inside her, and she felt dangerously vibrant, wonderfully powerless, yet so very _wanted, _as he worshipped her in his arms.

"Tell me again," he whispered like a lost child into her neck, his lips refusing to part with her skin. Somewhere just beneath the surface of the water, his fingers lovingly clasped hers, and repeatedly stroked the golden ring.

"I am yours," she responded, tossing her arms around his shoulders and tangling her hands into his windswept blond hair.

He uttered a gasping laugh of pure disbelief, the joy in his eyes blazing above her. "How can I be so blessed?" He lifted one wet, reverent knuckle to trace the fine curve of her face, his voice unfathomable. "Tell me, Esme... How?"

She answered him readily with her lips, though not with words. Kissing was the only language that truly made sense to her now. Already, they both seemed fluent.

His arms tightened around her, and she was liberated. Every terror was trampled, every curse was crushed. Like a warm spring from the ground, her love erupted into new life, and it was more abundant, more bountiful, more vast than she had ever imagined it could be.

Love could only reach so far when it came from one person. But when two souls combined, love's path was boundless, tearing the brittle bindings of the universe to dust in its never ending conquest over the impossible.

* * *

**Read Carlisle's point of view of this chapter in Behind Stained Glass, chapter 36: "****Justice for the Lonely Soul."**


	58. Belated Engagement

**Chapter 58:**

**Belated Engagement**

* * *

It would never cease to amaze Esme how such self-inflicted torture and so many months of flustered agony could lead to such triumph in the end. She was still incredulous when she thought back on how she had gotten this far. Every place she had visited, every person she had spoken to, every dream she had dreamt, and every object she had touched had played a part in the carefully constructed setting for this final confession. And now here she was, with the very man her heart had pined for since she'd first laid eyes on him. The world was just a fine green cocoon around them now, and they were safe together inside of it, knowing they were both born to be one. The currents of the world had been trying desperately all the while to force them together, and when they finally confessed their love for one another, the world sighed with them in searing relief.

There had been times when Esme believed she didn't deserve Carlisle, but her joy was now too overpowering to sustain that belief. Carlisle was a good man with a strong heart and an even stronger soul. If he was thanking the heavens over and over again to have _her _in his arms, then there could be no doubt in her mind that she was in the right place.

As they remained locked in an endless embrace in the lake, the sun swept over the sky, and the hours went by like seconds. They spoke only when they were not kissing, and thus only a handful of words were exchanged.

Early evening saw them ambling their way through the lake, back to dry land. They walked hand in hand, and had they been human, they would barely be able to stand from the strength of their laughter. If they had cared to look close enough at the mansion over the hill, they would have seen that they were being watched.

Edward's smile grew grudgingly wider as he awaited the giddy couple's arrival. They took their time on their way back to the house, and he wondered if they even remembered he had been back from class for nearly an hour. He was not surprised to see them soaking wet and breathless with joy. From the looks on their faces and their blatant gestures of affection, he could guess precisely what he had missed while he was gone that day.

Esme was the first to notice Edward's observant gaze from afar. His arms were crossed as he leaned against the back wall of the house, looking just as content as he was amused by their display. Esme took comfort in knowing he could read their thoughts and know exactly how and where Carlisle's proposal had taken place. Edward's presence inspired Esme to run faster toward the house, and Carlisle immediately picked up his pace to catch up with her.

Just before she could reach the veranda steps, Carlisle's arms wrapped around her from behind, tugging her backward and lifting her off the ground. In a carefree fit of giggles, she watched as her feet parted with the concrete, sailing inches above the four shallow steps to land on the porch.

Edward greeted them with a knowing smile. "It took you long enough."

Esme's laughter softened with a gasp as Carlisle turned her swiftly in his arms to face him. He stared down at her in adoration, his eyes full of stars for her, as Edward's words seemed to echo in the back of his mind.

"Carlisle," said Edward.

Instead of responding to his name, Carlisle stooped down and planted his lips on Esme's.

Esme barely heard Edward's groan as Carlisle kissed her senseless. She thought it was rather ungentlemanly for him to ignore his son, but she decided she was too blissful to care in that moment.

"_Carlisle_."

At the insistent tone, Carlisle broke his fiery kiss to meet Edward's stern face.

"Can we all just...discuss this? Maybe?" asked Edward.

"What is there to discuss?" Carlisle repeated, his tone disturbingly insouciant. "We're getting married." Esme could see in his eyes that he was utterly stupefied by his own words. "Esme and I are..." The wonder and disbelief in his face came together in an alarmingly radiant grin.

Infectious as his smile was, Esme had barely enough time to return the gesture before he bowed into yet another furious kiss. The broadness of his grin made the kiss delightfully awkward to endure. Esme was filled with the sudden urge to knock Carlisle to the ground and love him like a savage right there on the back porch.

Edward sounded very uncomfortable. "Married. Yes. That is what I think we need to discuss." From the cold, clear way he pronounced his words, Esme could tell something more serious was on his mind.

Thankfully, Carlisle was aware enough to at least grasp his son's concern. He gently broke away from Esme's lips and looked up, the smile on his face still not entirely faded.

"What is it, Edward?"

Edward straightened up and ran a hand through his messy hair. "You don't mean to marry Esme...traditionally, do you?"

"I..."

Seeing Carlisle's smile grow dim made Esme nervous. She looked back and forth between the two men as silent thoughts passed between them, discontent with being cast out of the conversation.

"What does he mean, Carlisle?" she demanded quietly, trying to keep her panic in check.

Edward turned to Esme and bluntly explained, "I mean there's a world of difference between simply finding a mate and getting married."

Still confused, Esme whipped around to face her fiancé.

"We'll take care of everything when the time comes," Carlisle quelled, his eyes still fixed on his son.

"It's coming a bit fast, don't you think?" Edward challenged wearily.

Desperate for confirmation, Esme gently shook Carlisle's shoulder. "We _can _get married, can't we?"

His eyes came back to hers, his face filled with certainty. "Yes. We can."

She breathed in relief, but it was short-lived.

Edward looked the tiniest bit frustrated by Carlisle's quick response. "Carlisle, there's more to consider—"

"I understand, son," Carlisle gently assured him. "It's alright."

Still confused, Esme turned to Edward in concern. "You're happy, Edward? Aren't you?" She knew she could never be happy at the cost of Edward's contentment, no matter how elated Carlisle's kisses made her feel.

The boy's smile was convincing and genuine. "Of course I am." She was relieved to see the amused joy come back to his face. He looked stronger when he stood up to his full height and stepped tentatively closer to them. "I'm just looking out for you."

"We'll find a way to make it work," Carlisle said to Edward before he quickly looked back to the woman in his arms. "Anything you want, we'll have," he promised her, a wildly reverent look in his golden eyes. Her knees wobbled as he swept both hands through her hair and grasped her cheeks. "If you want a wedding, I can give you that."

Even though Esme knew it was untraditional for vampires to celebrate marriage with an official ceremony, she still could not help but wonder why Edward and Carlisle seemed to expect a wedding was not necessary in this case. Surely Carlisle must have implied some desire for an actual wedding when he asked her to _marry _him.

Her confusion was ripe as she stared up at Carlisle with wide eyes, but before she could ask any questions, he was kissing her again, and her worries were forgotten.

******-}0{-**

The night felt so different now that she belonged to another.

There was a thrumming hope in the air, an unspoken thrill of what could be theirs if only they had been bold enough to seize it. With every star that appeared to twinkle overhead, Carlisle's eyes steadily darkened another shade until the sun finally set. As the night bore down over them like a heavy blanket, all Esme could do was cling to her future husband in the dark.

The air was thick yet cool, set with a sultry chill from the early season. The sounds of crickets were not sparse like they had been the night before, but they were rolling constantly, loud and monotonous a perfect melody to compliment the moist night air.

Since the day began, they had not yet set foot inside the house. Instead, they prolonged their time with nature, enjoying their newfound intimacy with one another while gallivanting among the earth's green treasures.

Carlisle insisted that they enjoy their first night as a couple to the fullest, and Esme hadn't the faintest desire to argue. After all, what could possibly go wrong when they were together?

She was surprised when Carlisle suddenly took off running through the grass with her hand in his, and she wondered for a moment if his intention was to dive right back into the lake. No matter what it was he had in mind, she was eager to find out.

As if sensing her urgency, he gave her hand a thrilling tug as he neared the thick wall of willow trees by the lake. Through the hanging fronds, Esme could make out the sparkle of the water's surface, being kissed by moonlight. Her heart smiled at the sight, and she was made even more eager for the moment when Carlisle would kiss her in much the same way.

His hand held her tighter as he dragged her down the slope that led toward the lake's marshy shore. They both laughed a little breathlessly, equally giddy in the darkness together, knowing precisely what the shade of the trees ahead of them promised.

When Carlisle finally came to a stop, he reached up with one arm to pull apart the green curtain of vines. He stepped inside then gave Esme's hand another excited tug, inviting her under the canopy of shadows.

It was much darker beneath the willow's shade, yet somehow it felt warmer here deep and protective the very womb of Mother Nature. The air was still enough that none of the willow leaves were dancing. They were all asleep, and Esme decided silence was best so as not to disturb them. Just beyond the dangling green leaves, the lake rippled not from the wind but from small creatures that floated beneath and above the water's surface. The moon's twin shone as a gaudy reflection, casting Carlisle's handsome face in a faint blue glow as he approached her from the shadows.

They stood across from one another, taking up very little space though they had plenty to spare. Carlisle took hold of Esme's other hand, drawing her unbearably close. Their hands clung with violent tightness as they stared into each other's eyes, and the moment was tranquil, yet charged with a sensual spark. Esme felt a fiery blush beneath her cheeks as Carlisle slowly leaned down to bring his face near to hers.

He kissed her once on her cheek first. It was soft and delicate, igniting her thirst for more. She felt his breath quicken and his fingers slide between hers as he stepped forward, and she stepped once backward to accommodate him.

He stepped forward again. She stepped backward again.

One step forward. One step backward.

Then another. And another.

Until she was pressed against the body of the tree, and Carlisle's body was pressed against hers.

Her legs became quaky as his arms crossed behind her waist and his hips rested flush against her own. The firmness of his body was beautifully oppressive; it made her feel safe but also excited. She was completely at his mercy as he took her chin in his hand and kissed her deeply on the mouth.

The heat that filled her body at the moment their lips collided was so strong that it bordered being unpleasant. She felt a burgeoning thirst in her throat, but it was not like the thirst for blood. It was so very different.

There beneath the willow tree, while the crickets chirped their mindless song, Esme bubbled over with ecstasy, surrendering her body to a 17th Century pastor's passionate son. She felt the crinkle of one of his notes buried in his pocket, his belly rubbing against hers through the thin fabric of her dress. She felt the ticklish brush of his fingers on the back of her neck, the tip of his nose pressing into her cheek, the coiling of muscles in his shoulders as she clung to him.

"I don't know how to let go of you," she whispered into his hair.

"Then don't," he whispered back.

In response, she held him tighter, and he made the happiest sound imaginable.

"How can this be real?" Esme sighed between the kisses Carlisle offered as precious evidence to answer her question, his hands fastened firmly around her waist.

Too lost in bliss to speak, she weaved her fingers through his glorious hair, marveling at the silken texture of each golden lock. He drew her to him over and over again, his lips full and inviting as he kissed her with abandon. Her eyes opened sensually when he was through, still mere inches from his face, and she could see the rippling darkness in his gaze.

At long last he simply pronounced her name. His voice was soft, but had a distinct rustle to it, like long grass swaying in the wind. The way he said her name was so much different now, compared to how he had said it before they were engaged. It was the same melodic tenor, the same sincere tenderness, but he no longer had to hide the stark passion in the way he said it.

She listened to him say her name that way all night long, enduring faithful streams of kisses from his tireless lips until the darkness melted away in the fair rays of a morning sun.

They stepped into the house together their house and they recalled their sorrow from days long past. Holding tightly to one another, they came to realize they would never have to suffer through the confusion and heartbreak of new love ever again.

It was like walking over rainclouds, clasping her fingers around the threads of lightning, wielding a power under which she used to submit herself. Esme loved that she did not have to hide her feelings now. She did not have to flee from Carlisle's presence to smite her fantasies.

She was now living those fantasies when he stood across from her, gazing down at her like the sun gazes down at the earth. He gently cupped the side of her neck in his hand and dipped her head back to kiss her in the stream of light from the window. The way he did it, so deliberately, tilting her into submission as he took what he wanted from her in the most tender way, was deeply, delicately arousing. She cherished the taste of his lips, frightened that the fleeting feeling would never fully satisfy her.

And in a way, it never really did. It still left a part of her deliriously hollow every time he parted from her. Sweet wisps of his breath trailed over her chin and back up to her cheek, warming her. He waited for her to open her eyes, so patiently breathing, watching, waiting. As much as she wished to see his eyes in that tiny moment between bliss and renewal, she never caught more than the residual sparkle once her lashes found the strength to lift.

They stared at each other for that untouched moment the core of whatever emotions passed silently between them. Then one would smile, and the other would grin, and it was like they both knew exactly what the other was thinking. Only because they were never thinking of anything else these days.

Esme's hand was alone, dangling by her side, and Carlisle looked down at it with such disapproval whenever he saw it like that. She knew he was going to pick it up. He always did.

"Somehow I knew from the beginning that this would resolve itself unconventionally."

She giggled softly as her prediction came true; he took her hand in his and lifted it under the window's faint light.

His smile twitched in affectionate amusement as he gently twisted the delicate golden band around her finger. Her lower lip fell as she stared down at the precious symbol in a profoundly happy sort of daze. The ring glinted just as radiantly as their skin; even under the premature sunlight, the fair diamonds in the center sparkled like a lavish flower of ice crystals.

Esme breathed a melancholy sigh, experimentally raising and lowering her ring finger so the colors changed. "If only I'd had the courage to tell you sooner."

Carlisle's voice came with a quiet chuckle. "You forget that I was equally lacking in courage."

"Your letters were what gave _me _the courage to finally say the words," she confessed.

He met her eyes with a wistful smile, and her heart did a pleasant tumble. "I needed you to know... I just didn't know how to tell you."

His knuckles caressed her cheek softly, seeking redemption as he slowly turned her face toward his.

"I was so elated when you said that you loved me back."

The great disbelief Esme still felt at the idea that Carlisle loved her as much in return was disarming to say the least. Even now, it seemed too preposterously good to be true when he held her hand in his with the promise to love her forever. He loved her with his entire being. This man, _this miracle_, whom she thought she could never have.

He pulled her into his arms and embraced her. Though it was a peaceful embrace, she was very much aware of the simmering strain in his chest, the carefully concealed flame within him. She thought she could feel what he craved sometimes, though he never spoke of it. Just one breath could give it away - a flash of feverish yearning, a stroke of aggressiveness. Carlisle hid so many things out of shame or fear, but little by little she could feel his shields withering away in the wake of his burgeoning love for her.

Esme found herself lost in these thrilling thoughts as she stared at the small stained glass window beside the door, her chin resting on Carlisle's strong shoulder. The colors in that little window never before looked so vibrant, so beautiful. Her eyes adored the shattered shapes of infatuated fuschia, and dreamy turquoise, and midnight blue; a green so bright it made her eyes burn, a red so rich it made her thirsty. No one ever told her how remarkable everything would look once she had experienced true love.

She wanted to explore that love even deeper now that Carlisle was willing to share it with her. She wanted to experience everything with him, starting with the most vital step in their marriage.

"I want a wedding, Carlisle," she suddenly whispered, remembering his earlier promise to give her whatever she wanted. "A _real _wedding."

She could feel each of his fingers gripping the small of her back. "I know you do." He kissed the top of her head and sighed. "I want it as well."

Detecting pity in his voice, Esme carefully lifted her head from his shoulder and tilted her head back to stare at his face.

"But I understand that, given our...situation...perhaps we can't." As if he could not believe what he was hearing, Carlisle pulled away slightly, looking deeply saddened by the regret in her face.

He hushed her with a finger to her lips. "We _can_, Esme. There are no limitations on what we can or cannot have. With the right amount of patience, we can be married just as any other couple would."

"Edward doesn't think we should," Esme pointed out.

Carlisle frowned in understanding. "His concern is valid, but he isn't the one making this decision. This is between you and me."

His voice was stronger when he said those words, _"You and me."_ And all Esme could think was how wonderful it sounded, how happy it made her to know they were a devoted pair no matter what.

"Maybe we _should_ just be content as mates," she reasoned gently, not wanting to stir up a conflict. "If other vampires can be happy this way, why can't we?"

Carlisle was already shaking his head at her. For such a peaceful man, he could certainly be stubborn when it came to something he believed in. She absolutely adored this about him, even though it sometimes infuriated her.

"Esme, we both know what our hearts truly need," he whispered with conviction. "We _will_ be a married couple. Not just mates." His fingers threaded gently through her hair and curled around her cheek. "We _will_ be husband and wife."

Her eyes closed contentedly as he touched her face, gently draining her of all her strength so she could barely argue even if she wanted to.

"But think of how long we might have to wait," she exhaled impatiently.

"It's better this way," he murmured with notorious maturity. "It would be careless of us to risk a wedding in our present circumstances." He lowered one finger to fondly prod the diamond on her finger.

Esme's smile faded slightly. Their concerns for her ability to control bloodlust were still quite strained. Although Carlisle had been impressed by her progress over the past several months, her motivation was still not enough to prepare her for an impromptu appearance in the populated public.

There was a long pause where they both stared at the tiny but glaring symbol of their love upon her finger, each lost in their own thoughts.

"What if I'm... _never _able to be in the presence of humans?"

She did this often asked him questions that she knew were purposefully insecure only because she was addicted to his delicious assurances.

"You will be." He said the words adamantly. "One day, my love. It won't be long now. I promise."

She leaned submissively into his embrace with a sigh, still feeling the need to apologize. "Nevertheless, I am sorry for the delay."

"I'm not," he countered with a smile. "We have eternity."

******-}0{-**

It was beyond thrilling for Esme to call Carlisle her fiancé. Since they had first started sharing a home together, she had always thought Carlisle to be a very gracious and content person. But a man experienced contentment only when he assumed happiness did not really exist. In the world of eternal contentment, happiness lasted only for short spurts of time, and a man had to treasure that happiness whenever he was lucky enough to catch it.

In the past few weeks, though, Esme had seen an utterly different side to her beloved doctor. He was no longer _just content_. His happiness was brilliant in such a quiet, beautiful way. It was like the sun had been hidden behind a cloud all along, and the clouds were finally dissipating before her very eyes. Even Edward was affected by the permanent change in Carlisle's countenance. It was hard not to share in Carlisle's elation when his spirits were soaring.

For once, Esme felt that she and Carlisle were truly free to behave as their given ages.

They were carefree as schoolchildren on some days, savoring the novelty of being able to kiss each other on a whim whenever and wherever they pleased. Together they basked in their blistering affection, rolling in the grass and racing through the forest and splashing in the lake.

The only thing stopping them from living every minute this way was Carlisle's devotion to the hospital. And though Esme was embittered by his need to leave her behind every other day, she could not deny that there were occasional perks to his job. On the days when he returned home after a successful surgery, his kisses were all the more vigorous and passionate, high as he was on having just saved a life. Esme loved sharing in his successes, just as Carlisle lived to share hers.

He helped her overcome her fears by taking her out to the edge of the forest where she could see the nearest village in the valley below. She continued to make her way closer and closer to the humans with his help, knowing she had the strength to conquer anything with Carlisle at her side. She quickly became so confident that she thought she could even venture down the valley by herself one day, provided she was doing it on a full belly of blood.

They talked about visiting the town one day, but Esme knew it would all be just talk until she came out and said that she was ready. It was not like Carlilse to make assumptions. He would wait for her, just like he waited for her to say she loved him, before making the decision. He wanted to be sure she was comfortable with taking the next step, and a part of developing that sense of comfort came from his undying patience with her.

Both Carlisle and Edward were devoted to helping her take that next step, and Esme couldn't ask for better support. Her greatest motivation was the wedding she'd been promised should she succeed in conquering her thirst in the presence of humans. If anything, she had that to look forward to as a fulfilling victory.

In the meantime, she realized that waiting was not so bad. Patience was not so tedious. Carlisle was not so rushed to be properly married in a church. It was all a part of her personal growth, and it gave them more time to get to know each other on a more intimate level before they officially became husband and wife.

Esme wouldn't have traded those sentimental few weeks of clumsy courting for the world.

Carlisle was always teasing her to put her shoes on, and she was avoiding his requests at all costs, even when he crept up on her and tried to force the shoes onto her feet while she lay in grass.

"At least let me place _something_ on your feet," he insisted. She couldn't refuse his pleading eyes.

She surrendered with a sigh, bringing her legs out from under her skirt to stretch them out gingerly in front of her. He smiled almost deceitfully as her bare feet nearly touched his knees, and he bent down slowly in the grass to lay on his belly before her, his nose just grazing the tips of her toes. She giggled at the ticklish sensation and he stilled her foot by gently grasping her ankle. Tugging her just a tad closer, he closed his eyes and kissed the sole of her right foot, then her left.

Hopefully he was satisfied now that he _had_ placed something on her feet.

When he finished kissing each foot, she parted her feet to reveal his face, and he smiled back at her, so charming he was a disgrace.

To see Carlisle so incomprehensibly happy was thrilling enough, but knowing she was the sole cause of his happiness was incredible. To be considered a blessing by Carlisle was rewarding enough for Esme. Knowing her presence and her love for him was the source of his delight gave her a sense of wondrous purpose. He was positively luminous with the relief of being blessed to his heart's content, because he finally had _her. _

He reminded her of that boundless affection every time he happened to cross her path, with silent requests to lay his hands upon her waist, to press his chaste but thrilling kisses on her cheek. As time passed he should have known that she would never willingly refuse his touch. But there were moments when he retained the delicate precariousness of one courting instead of the bolder affections of one engaged. It was an endearing frustration for her, being an obvious outcry from his conservative and spiritually strict upbringing.

After so many days of reckless flirting, Carlisle had set a slightly eccentric curb to his behavior around her. It all started when he teasingly mentioned how scandalous their behavior would seem if their families were still alive to see them. In Esme's time, courting was done only with a chaperone present, and kisses were rarely dispensed, if one was brave enough to endure a kiss. In Carlisle's time, a kiss on the lips was not something unmarried couples would share, regardless of whether they were betrothed or not.

After this discussion, Carlisle decided on a ridiculous whim to deny himself any more kisses.

Esme protested at first, though not as vehemently as she would have liked, seeing how incredibly, strictly sentimental he was about the challenge. Apparently the kiss was beyond their boundaries"a pleasurable violation of the lips," he'd called it and that made her thirst for it all the more.

Sometimes she would feel his fingers brushing against her chin, just barely touching her lips, as if he still could not believe they were _his _to touch. They were his to kiss as well, but he would not kiss them. The kisses would have to wait. He _wanted_ to wait. After all these years, he still wanted to wait.

It was not so frustrating at first. She highly anticipated the day when they would be free to quench their every desire, and she was content with that anticipation. But anticipation was really just a watered-down brand of torture. Esme could only take so much before the ache turned to agitation, and Carlisle was being just as sparse with his touch as ever. He was, however, never sparse with his _affection_. For this Esme was glad; it was the only thing keeping her head above the water.

She could survive on his affection, his verbal assurances that she was his only love, and would be forever. No matter how enchanting she had thought his voice to be before, hearing him utter shamelessly passionate words of endearment into her ear was intoxicating.

And she could have _that_ that familiar, loving voice in her ear every day for the rest of her life and she could be that voice for _his _ears. Because as much as she knew he would want to care for her, she wanted desperately to care for him as well.

They would exercise that care over the course of their engagement however they could. Admittedly, there were not many ways for a vampire to help or be helped by another vampire, but they were there for each other, sharing their time like it was air to breathe. Already they were hesitant to ever be apart.

The days when Carlisle stayed home were precious. Whether or not the weather was favorable, they would run off to the shore of the lake and spend the day there, beneath that very willow tree where they had confessed their feelings for the first time.

Esme held his head in her lap as they rested beneath the shade, and staring down at his beautiful face, she wondered if he would be terribly angry if she decided to break his new kissing rule. It was, in a way, just as much in her right to lean down and kiss him soundly on the mouth right then. He would not be breaking his vow she would be breaking it for him. She wanted the kiss, but he would not give it to her.

He was keeping her at the edge of her sanity with all of this waiting. It was enough to wait for consummation itself, but to wait for just a kiss on the lips was truly cruel. Perhaps he knew that. After all, Carlisle had a kind of sick fondness for abstaining from things that brought pleasure. But he was always thirsting for her affection, substituting the coveted kiss for chaster touches that told their tale of boundless love in their own right. Here, outside in the grass, under the sky, safe and free and with only the sun as their witness, he could be close to her. And that was all he had ever truly needed.

At the start of a new day she would breathe soft, weightless words while staring down at his peaceful face, thinking it was utterly impossible for her to love him this much for simply needing her.

It was almost enough to just be needed. But she needed _him_ more than ever, just as deeply.

"We should run to the nearest church right now," she suggested, her voice soft and slightly teasing, but her eyes were serious as he glanced up at her.

He seemed concerned. "You're not ready yet, love."

She swallowed, as if the venom would keep the thirst at bay. Carlisle raised his head from her lap and straightened up beside her on the grass. With one hand, he reached out and smoothed the stray tendrils of hair behind her ear. "I wish we could, but you need more time. More exposure..."

Esme bit her lip, but nodded her understanding, however reluctant she was to agree. She had made great progress so far, but she wasn't quite at a place where she could boast flawless confidence in her control. Only more time and practice could solve this. To her everlasting regret, it was _her _fault they were waiting.

She watched as Carlisle's eyes skimmed over her bare legs, resting on her feet with a fond smile. Determined to cheer her up, he reached down to tickle her toes, and she laughed softly in response. Gently, he cupped her heel in his hand and lifted it to his chin, his eyes locked on hers as he placed another chaste kiss on her ankle.

But despite how chaste it was, that brief tickle of his lips against her sensitive skin sent a burst of ripe energy through her body.

She gasped, almost imperceptibly. But he heard her.

His eyes glittered, dimming under the light of the sun. His lips parted with her ankle, and he stared at her with bemused eyes. His breathing grew heavy, and his gaze was dark.

Something was happening.

"Why won't you kiss me?" she demanded curiously, thinking back to the time not so long ago when he had started this ridiculous game.

He stroked her heel with a careful finger, his expression deep and bothered. "I'm afraid."

This was new. She wasn't expecting such a brutally honest answer. She sat up straighter and stared into his eyes. "Of what?"

He swallowed and boldly met her gaze. "My...instincts."

He made the word sound dangerous, but Esme could never think of Carlisle as the predator. If he had instincts, they were pure. If he had desires, they were beautiful. The darker his eyes became, the more intensely she wanted to see what those instincts were.

"_I'm_ not afraid," she said assuredly, reaching down to grasp his hand around her ankle.

"Oh, Esme." His lips barely moved as he whispered her name. He shook his head and looked down at the grass, pain glistening in his gaze. "Please do not tempt me... I don't want to ruin what we have."

"How could you ruin it?" She scooted closer to him and cupped his chin with her hand. When he reluctantly lifted his head, she whispered, "All you could do is make it more wonderful..."

Fledgling excitement swirled in his burnt amber eyes. "Oh, I want to, Esme. I long for nothing else."

The wind tugged at his collar, as if tempting her to do the same. Her voice was low and rough when she next spoke. "I don't want to wait any longer."

He shuddered as she said this.

"Neither do I." His voice was so deep she could feel it in the ground beneath her.

"Then..."

She cut herself short as the wind blew stronger. Finding no need for words, she sat up fully straight in the grass and reached over for the buttons on his collar.

_Those buttons... _How many times had she dreamed of undoing them?

She did not pluck them apart right away. Instead, she savored the moment, lingering with her fingers poised on the tiny whalebone circles. His eyes were wide and intense, aching with wonder. His breath was hard and steady, but not rushed. Beneath the fine fabric of his shirt, she could feel the strength of his body. He shifted his weight the slightest bit, and she could feel the tremble of his muscles against her hand.

Her eyes fell closed when she felt the unexpected touch of his hand on her knee, lifting the end of her skirt.

"Here?" he asked in that same heavy, deep voice.

She was only vaguely aware that he did not mean _here _as in "_here is where you want me to touch you._" He meant _here, _as in "_here, under this tree, in this patch of grass, is where you want me to make love to you._"

Without thinking, she nodded.

"I love you," he said, his voice soft and small. It was such a contrast to the way he sounded just a moment ago, and the sudden change almost frightened her.

She was speechless.

"Do you feel my love for you, Esme?" he asked her, trembling through his words. She gave him an honest answer.

"Yes..."

And she could feel as he pressed against her that he was just as prepared to give her what she was prepared to receive.

All at once she began to grow extraordinarily nervous. Nervous that he was actually going to _do this. _Deep down, she always thought Carlisle would stop himself when that heated moment came, and he would spare her the embarrassment of having to do it herself. But he was _not_ stopping himself.

The wonder was written just as blatantly on his face, as if he could scarcely believe _he _was about to do what his instincts begged of him. And Esme was suddenly afraid, recalling some long lost memory of her past marriage. A sick feeling rose inside her gut with a defensive cry, "_Don't touch me!"_

She wanted Carlisle to touch her. But something felt..._wrong_ about the here and now_._

"We...can't?" she whispered, confirming the spark of concern in Carlisle's pleading eyes. There was a mutual guilt simmering beneath their building pleasure. It was as if a fountain had erupted between them, but it was dying down as their fuel of passion ceased churning the waters.

He bowed his head in most beautiful chagrin.

"God must join us," he whispered as the shuddering released his body. "Not I." With that, he backed away, settling breathlessly in the grass beside her.

Somehow rational thoughts resurfaced in Esme's mind. She was miraculously able to calm down from the high, though still shaking with shock at what had nearly happened. What he said made sense, but that didn't stop it from hurting her, even if it was just the honest promise of a decent man.

"Come here," he murmured graciously, welcoming her into his warm arms as he leaned against the bark of the willow tree. "To say that I cannot tame my desires would be a poor excuse," he said. "You are worth too much to me, Esme. Do you understand?"

She didn't answer, just barely nodded her head.

But he seemed content with her minimal response, and did not press her to answer him verbally. "Our bond cannot be sacred unless we are first blessed as husband and wife before the eyes of God," he explained softly, settling his cheek atop her head.

Something finally hit Esme then, and she was able to see past her subtle feelings of selfish embarrassment to what Carlisle was truly telling her. "You have never known another woman... have you?"

She moved her head from under his, twisting around to look up at him.

"I have not." There was no shame or shyness in his voice as he said it, but there was something in his eyes that looked like guilt. It put a stopper on her relief for a moment before he continued gently, "But this is a poor reckoning of my behavior, Esme. I cannot bear dishonesty before your face. I have been tempted many times. Simply refusing to act on those desires is the only credit I am due."

She held her breath and considered his revealing words. "I never expected you to be without flaw, Carlisle."

But this was somewhat a lie. She had foolishly hoped that he _would _come as a perfect, clean, unmarked slate. His truth was appreciated, of course, but Esme was ashamed to admit to herself that his truth also hurt her. She could not admit this to him, or it would make him feel terrible. All she could do was pray that her disappointment did not show on her face.

"Two and half centuries is no possible conquest for any man," he murmured, seemingly more intent on confirming this for himself.

"Of course not," she defended, overcome with the need to assure him now. She cupped his cheek in her hand and forced her eyes to remain steadily locked to his.

"It is a delicate question what is pure, what is not."

She bit her lip and looked down briefly. His cryptic musings were beginning to make her nervous again.

"Do you think... Do you think _I _am pure?" she asked, worried she came off sounding like a self-conscious little girl.

Carlisle's eyes hardened with conflicting emotions. "In no way do I consider myself any more or less tainted than you, Esme." He grazed her cheek with the back of his hand and came closer, lowering his voice. "Your purity lies within your heart, and that is the only place I seek to mark."

She shivered as he teased the tip of her nose with his. But something he said was still unclear in the back of her mind.

"When you say you knew temptation..."

She trailed off, allowing him to finish the thought. "I mean that I was tempted like any other man." His face was stony but his eyes seemed to shimmer with secrets that ached to be told. He backed away slightly, still holding his hand against her cheek.

"Is there something I should know about, is what I am asking." She nearly had to force the words out, her chest tightening with discomfort over the delicate subject. His hand on her cheek was the only thing that kept her calm.

"I was still in Volterra at the time," he murmured, stroking her face with gentle fingers as if to assuage the pain that would inevitably come along with the story. "Her name was Marietta. She...offered herself to me, Esme. So many times. It began to seem foolish that I was refusing her so persistently. I had reached a point in my life where I was beginning to doubt my faith whether it was even relevant to the afterlife."

Esme's lips dropped open slightly. Looking at the man Carlisle was today, it was almost impossible for her to imagine him struggling with his faith, especially to the point where he had considered submitting himself sexually to a strange woman.

As much as it hurt her to hear it, Esme knew she had to listen to the rest of the story. It was a part of Carlisle's past, and she wanted to know everything about him, even the things that may have seemed strange and disturbing to an outsider.

Carlisle's eyes were cloudy as he relived the memory. "Marietta was insistent. I was weak. And so I went to her one night. It felt terribly wrong, but I had tried to numb myself, tried to forget my sense of morality, thinking this was what I needed to break free of the hold my faith had on me."

Esme shuddered at his words, hoping the horror she felt inside could not be seen on her face.

"But you didn't..."

"She touched me," he said simply, taking Esme's hand and placing it against the center of his chest. "Right here. That was all." He breathed out deeply, releasing the tension from his body. "I looked into her eyes, just as I am looking into yours...and I knew that I would have an eternity's worth of regret ahead of me if I were to surrender to her that night."

She felt his hand tighten and press her palm more securely against his heart before he concluded. "I'd thought I was destroying myself by clinging to my faith, but in the end it was my faith that stopped me from committing the most grievous sin of all."

Esme curled one hand around her forehead, overwhelmed by the events Carlisle had just recounted so willingly for her. It was unlike him to be open and speak about private things, but over the course of their engagement, he seemed less fond of keeping secrets from her. In her heart she knew this was a positive thing, but it was not always pleasant.

She was not exactly thirsting for any more details on the story, but one thing still left her wondering. "How did you tell her you had changed your mind?"

The very slight hint of a smile touched his lips. "I said nothing. She must have seen it in my eyes, that I did not truly want what she offered me." He lifted Esme's hand from his chest and touched it to the skin of his neck, just inches from his scars. "One cannot justify the reasoning of his heart. So I simply left her."

"She must have been—"

"Angry? Yes, naturally. The woman had never been refused by another man before, so I'd imagine she has still not forgiven me."

Her mood brightened by his gentle humor, Esme somehow managed a bit of hesitant laughter.

"Oh, Esme..." Carlisle sighed lovingly, closing his eyes as he guided her fingers carefully around his scarred flesh. "Even then, there was no doubt in my mind that I had made the right decision. And now I am only more grateful that I did."

A fire started beneath her breast at his words, and she felt the burn of fresh tears behind her eyes. "Still, perhaps this woman would have...known what she was doing...a little better than I—"

"Esme." His voice interrupted her, stern and dark, as he shook his head. "I do not want a woman who _knows_. I want a woman who _loves_." He let go of her hand to cradle her cheek again something she noticed he did quite often. "Marietta did not love me. She was looking for a conquest. She pursued me for selfish reasons. I intrigued her because I was an anomaly, but in the end I would have been just another number. She did not truly care for me; she was a pretender in every way. I saw _nothing_ in her eyes that could rival what I see in yours."

The ache in his voice was never before so blatant. At that moment Esme wanted to give herself to him entirely, let him have her any way he wished, allow him to love her restlessly to his heart's content.

"What do you see in my eyes?" she asked breathily, inching her fingertips closer to the faded bite marks on his neck.

He swallowed hard and leaned closer to her, losing himself in her gaze. "Love. Warmth. An unconquerable passion which I long to one day know better..."

There was so much truth shining in his eyes, so much goodness and honesty, she was almost humiliated by the sight of it. She wondered how on earth she could manage to wait any longer for their wedding.

"We can make that 'one day' very soon," she whispered. It was an unintentional promise, but a genuine one nonetheless.

His eyes grew wide and bright when he realized what she meant. He quietly captured her fingers before they could pass directly over his scars.

"You're ready to go out into the world, Esme." It was not a question. He was not going to risk asking questions anymore. He had that beautiful, breathless excitement in his eyes now that endearing eagerness she had grown to recognize and love about him. "Will you let me take you into town? Tonight?"

Overwhelmed by the sudden shift in their conversation, all she could do was parrot the word in shock. "Tonight?"

"Edward will come with us. We'll visit quiet, less populated places to start out. The museum. The library..." He folded both her hands between his and grasped them against his chest, pleading with every fiber of his being. "I know that you are strong enough for this, Esme. Can you please trust me?"

It should have been a big decision that took days to think over, but for Esme, it was enough that Carlisle had asked her to trust him. That, she could grant him in a second.

"I do. I trust you."

"Then...?"

She had never seen him looking so hopeful, and his enthusiasm was infectious.

If only she knew what she was getting herself into.

"We'll go tonight."

* * *

**You can read Carlisle's POV of this chapter in Behind Stained Glass, Chapter 37: Pure as Doves.**


	59. One Step Further

**Chapter 59:**

**One Step Further**

* * *

One thing Esme had forgotten was that most humans slept through the night. When they made it to the outskirts of Ashland town, she found it odd that the nearby streets seemed to be entirely silent. Carlisle had not lied to her. The town looked utterly dead after midnight.

Still, the haunting sounds of humans breathing or whispering in the far distance made Esme nervous. Since she had come within a five mile radius of the town, she hadn't taken a breath. It was obvious to Carlisle what she had been doing. She hadn't said a word since Edward helped her out of the car.

Every once in a while, Carlisle would glance down at Esme in concern. He held her tightly around her arm while Edward flanked her on the other side. She knew they were guarding her, secretly poised to drag her off if she proved unable to handle herself.

She hadn't even had the chance to fail yet.

Carlisle kept tight hold of her arm while Edward hurried ahead of them, pausing by the edge of the abandoned road to listen for nearby humans. His eyes were bright in the darkness when he looked back at them, his voice full of excitement. "I think we're clear."

Esme looked up at Carlisle for confirmation. Once she received a smile and a nod, she let herself take the first breath.

Notes of tempting blood bombarded her nose, but with Carlisle's hand firmly gripping her, she came quickly into her senses. The scents were nothing she hadn't smelled before, but here in the village they were more concentrated than they would have been out in the middle of the forest where mostly animals lurked. The essence of live humans was everywhere here, and the scents, while muted from distance, were still strong enough to challenge her composure with every breath.

"You're doing wonderfully so far, darling," Carlisle murmured encouragingly above her as he led closer to the buildings ahead. His steps were slow and steady, letting her control the pace at which she approached the enticing scents.

Edward seemed twice as confident that Esme could handle whatever came her way. "The library is just around this corner, Esme. Follow me!" he hissed before vanishing around a lamppost.

Esme's feet were tempted to pick up the pace once Edward was out of sight, but Carlisle patiently held her back. "Take your time," he said quietly. "He'll wait for us."

The buildings seemed to grow taller, stretching toward the sky as she came closer. It was as if she were walking into a storybook illustration or a newspaper photograph. It had been such a long time since she had set foot in a place like this – a place created and inhabited by humans. Here she finally found evidence that civilization still continued on in the world while she'd spent months hiding in a mansion in the middle of the woods. The sight of the town at night was relatively unspectacular to Carlisle and Edward, but to Esme, it was nothing short of breathtaking.

When they finally turned around the corner of the block, a tall brown brick building came into view. On its front facade, in golden letters over the doors, were the words _Vaughn Library_. By the steep front steps, Edward stood tapping his foot as he waited for her.

"Can we go inside the library?" she asked eagerly.

Carlisle chuckled and Edward swung smoothly around the stair railing with a mischievous grin. "Of course we're going inside," he confirmed gleefully.

She thought Edward would be leading them up those front steps, but instead he made a stealthy rush for the side of the building, guiding them through the shadows to a secret back entrance. Without a key, he managed to magically pick the lock on the door with his talented fingers. Smiling proudly, Edward held the door open for Esme and Carlisle. Esme hurried inside, tugging Carlisle along with her as she found herself at the bottom of a cramp stairwell. They climbed it together as Edward made silly comments about how fantastically creepy the empty library was at night. No doubt the townspeople would agree with him, especially if they knew it was being invaded by vampires after hours.

Esme could feel her anticipation building as they neared the top of the staircase. The air grew mustier and more oppressive with heat as they climbed higher. Eventually they reached the top where Edward opened a door to the core of the building, and a wave of pleasantly cooler air invited them inside.

Esme found herself standing on the top floor of the library, perched beside a grand balcony that overlooked all three stories below. If she looked down she could see all the way to the ground floor where a stunning mosaic covered the tiled floor in the entryway. Long windows let in streams of moonlight to illuminate mazes of bookshelves on every tier that led up to the top floor. It was beautiful.

"Isn't it great?" Edward asked as he leaned over the side of the balcony. His whisper bounced off the walls in an eerie way, and Esme nodded enthusiastically.

She took in a long breath, inhaling the lingering human smells that filled the building. But stronger than the scent of humans was the familiar musk of paper and old books that reminded her of Carlisle's study. A feeling of comfort eased her nerves as she walked toward a shadowy corner of bookshelves to explore. She supposed Carlisle was not planning to let go of her the entire time they were out. She didn't mind it either.

As she walked into the shadows, she let her fingers sweep across the spines of books that lined the walls. "This is amazing," she whispered to Carlisle as they made their way deeper into the darkness.

He squeezed her upper arm in subtle agreement and shifted closer to her as he guided her around the corner and through another narrow row of bookshelves. The darkness was comforting with Carlisle by her side, and the things she discovered were thrilling. Her hand reached out to touch the corner of a small table with an oil lamp on it and a stack of books on one of the chairs. It looked as if someone had just abandoned the space moments ago to go fetch their reading glasses.

"It's almost like I had forgotten that humans still existed out here somewhere," she murmured as her fingers traced the glass top of the oil lamp. "The world seems so much more _real _to me now."

"It does make you feel more complete, doesn't it?" Carlisle asked as his fingers wrapped securely around her wrist. His deep, sincere voice made her heart sigh in agreement.

She nudged her head beneath his chin and let him hold her for a little while. "All I need is _you _to feel complete, Carlisle."

She heard him sigh contentedly above her. After a few moments they heard Edward's rustling presence in the narrow corridor behind them. "Carlisle, you have to show Esme these paintings," he hissed from behind the rows of shelves.

Esme perked up at the word "paintings." Her eagerness almost made her break away from Carlisle, but he still kept firm hold of her hand. He led her patiently to a wall of four large oil paintings in golden frames that hung by the library office door. Three out of the four paintings were of stately older men's faces, probably local political personalities who had played important roles in the town's history. The fourth painting, however, was not a portrait of a man, but of a horse. A solid white horse caught in a leap over a paddock fence, surrounded by green grass and a summer blue sky.

Esme stopped in front of the horse painting to admire the brushstrokes. Only now that she was a vampire did she realize how extraordinary the talents and skills of humans were. Their hands and minds could only do so much compared to a vampire, and yet their artwork was arguably even more amazing than her own. It truly brought to light the power and miraculous nature of art.

Edward smiled as he read her thoughts. As she stared at the painting, Carlisle came up behind her and folded his arms around her middle, resting his head on her right shoulder. His voice was wistful as he murmured in her ear. "I'd love to take you to the museum, Esme. Imagine all the art we could see together. There are paintings covering every wall, and countless sculptures in every room..."

Esme closed her eyes and imagined what Carlisle described to her. It sounded heavenly. "Can we go there next?" she whispered.

Carlisle lifted his head from her shoulder and looked to Edward, who shrugged with a grin. "She's done fine so far. I'll be able to tell if there's someone within at least ten blocks of us." He looked out the dusty window, then back to his father. "It's up to you."

Esme turned to give Carlisle her best pleading eyes. He didn't need any convincing to indulge her, though. "Yes, we can go there tonight."

A resounding echo of excitement filled the laughter of the two men behind her as Esme took off immediately down the cramp stairwell toward the exit. An entire building filled with endless rooms of artwork awaited her, and she didn't want to waste a second anywhere else.

Before she could scurry out the door, Carlisle was fast on her heels, his hand capturing hers in a secure grip. "Wait for us," he whispered to the back of her head, his voice tainted with the roughness of lingering laughter.

With a shiver, Esme compliantly held back, letting her fiancé wrap her up in his arms while Edward sped to the door. The boy grinned back at her before opening it gently. "You looked like you were about to break this door down."

Esme resisted the urge to stomp her foot. "I was not."

Edward ignored her protests, still grinning.

As the door opened and more warm night air hit her nose, Esme marveled at how well she was handling walking through town. There were temptations lurking around every new corner she turned, but she was growing more confident that she could resist them as they came to her. With every street block they covered, Carlisle's grip on her loosened as he became aware of that newfound confidence bringing bounce to her step.

Edward walked ahead of them the whole time, gauging the quality of the air and listening for nearby humans. After about three blocks of insufferably slow walking, Esme began to grow impatient.

"You two didn't tell me the museum was all the way on the other side of town," she complained.

Edward threw her a gentle glare over his shoulder. "Enjoying the exercise?"

Her lips drew a thin line, but Carlisle's hand swept the tension straight off her shoulders.

"Are we close?" she asked, squeezing her eyes shut as the scents of humans began to heighten in their potency.

Edward suddenly stopped short at her question, his head turning quickly from one direction to the other. He turned around in a controlled panic, his hands reaching out to push Esme back and stop her from walking forward. "Hold back for a few minutes. I think there may be someone..."

He stopped mid-sentence to whip his head in the other direction again.

"Edward?" Carlisle hissed urgently at his son. Esme began to breathe harder with anxiety, and the longer, deeper breaths brought her more wondrous scents.

A dismally familiar sensation of dizziness consumed her, and her body began to sway like a delicate flower in the wind.

"They're closer than I thought," she heard Edward mutter. "Let's just get out of here."

Her vision grayed out just as she felt four tough hands dragging her back up the street. She could barely tell if she was resisting them or not. Everything was a frustrating haze, like a bad dream that she couldn't wake from.

The sidewalk beneath her feet seemed to be swelling and undulating like a river of concrete. Frightening hallucinations flickered on either side of her peripheral as she moved effortlessly backwards through the deserted town. Moving backwards the way she had come... Erasing all the progress she had made. Regressing. Failing.

Esme's fear was suddenly swallowed by a fit of rage. Tears of anger shimmered in her eyes as she attempted to fight the men who were trying to pull her to safer grounds. She could vaguely hear them arguing in their struggle to talk sense into her, but she couldn't make out a single coherent word of what they were saying.

Only because she wasn't trying.

Esme thrashed her head from side to side, shaking the demons away from her mind. _Focus,_ she tried to tell herself. _Focus on what Edward and Carlisle are saying. Listen to their voices..._

It was not an easy thing to do. More like trying to climb up the slippery sides of a boiling pot of water. She knew she had to escape, the hard part was figuring out how to do it. She was tempted to say it was impossible, but that would make all her progress up to this point a waste.

Her efforts were not a waste. _She _was not a waste.

With the desperate will to prove her worth, Esme heaved herself over the side of that boiling pot of water. She tumbled to the ground, her skin still scalding with the heat she had conquered. The illusion had become so real in her mind that she almost believed she could see and feel the stinging burn marks on her arms and shoulders when she looked down.

The air she breathed was suddenly clear and cool. Everything was calm and quiet, save for the sound of three separate pairs of lungs breathing harshly. She was sitting in the grass, her legs askew. Carlisle was kneeling beside her, and Edward was standing upright in front of her. Their car was parked on the side of the road, a few feet away from where she sat.

As her wicked dream became reality, Esme gasped in horror when she noticed the marks on her arms and shoulders were not just hallucinations.

"What happened?" she choked out. Before she could lift a hand to touch the odd open wound in on her elbow, Carlisle grasped her hand to stop her.

"There was...a struggle," he said carefully, as if he were afraid to reveal the whole truth to her.

Edward gave her an exceedingly guilty look before he dashed for the car. The engine roared to life, causing her to jump. Every sound seemed louder than the one before it, bringing her deeper and deeper into the world of reality.

Carlisle noticed the fear in her face, drawing her to him with one arm draped cautiously across her shoulders. She winced as his arm made the slightest contact with the mysterious injuries near her neck. "Try not to move too much, Esme. You'll be alright."

He helped her to her feet and guided her to the back seat of the car, whispering words of comfort to her as Edward drove home in record time.

The first words out of Edward's mouth when they arrived were "Are you hurting very much, Esme?" His blatant concern worried her. Edward hardly ever expressed such nervousness in front of her.

She glanced down at the searing blisters on her skin. They were a vibrant purplish color, almost like real human blood. But the smell of them was sweet, stinging...like venom. They seemed to be slowly healing themselves with each passing minute, but the changing effects of her skin hurt in a strange way Esme had never experienced before.

Not knowing how to respond honestly to Edward without worrying him more, she shrugged. But she couldn't hide the pain that etched into her face as the burning sensation grew stronger.

Clamping one hand protectively over a particularly wide gash on her left shoulder, Esme turned pleadingly to Carlisle, who was already tugging her up to the house. "She'll be alright, Edward." He cast his son a long look that wordlessly assured all was under control.

Edward hung back, a confusing expression of guilt on his handsome young face as he gripped a pillar on the front porch and leaned against it like a concerned child.

Esme wanted to ask a hundred different questions, but she bit her tongue knowing Carlisle would explain things to her in time. Patience came easily to her as she let him guide her swiftly through the intricate hallways of the house until they reached his study. With one hand he turned on the colorful glass tiffany lamp as he passed his desk. He then gently twisted her around to examine her skin in the bright light. Esme caught on that this was one time when the light of a candle just wouldn't do.

It astounded her how he could be so quick while still appearing so calm. His breathing was steady and his expression was stern, but not overwhelmed. He was cool and collected, just thinking of what needed to be done to fix the problem at hand.

His examination was brief, consisting of just a few glances, and painless prodding in several areas on her exposed arms. He concluded his search with a quiet "You're fine, darling," and quickly escorted her out onto the porch behind his study.

The lamp inside still glowed strong, and it threw a long crescent of light onto the back porch when Carlisle cracked open the door. Without a word, he lifted Esme up to sit on the balustrade so her legs dangled over the edge.

It was then that she noticed the stethoscope in his hand. She gave him a questioning look as he neatly placed it around his neck.

"For sentimental reasons," he whispered in explanation.

She smiled widely in spite of her pain, loving that she would always be his patient.

He pulled off his tie, unbuttoned his sweater vest, and rolled up his sleeves in a trinity of sensual motions. His eyes became focused as he passed his fingers gently over her bare arm again, this time igniting a tingle of fire on her skin. She wasn't sure whether the sensation came from the open wound on her arm or the simple fact that he had touched her moments after he'd rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned his collar. Perhaps it was a combination of both.

An air of seriousness settled over them again as Esme hesitantly asked, "Did I do this?"

She gestured to the marks on her skin with little more than a fleeting glance. Carlisle looked surprised at her apparent shame. "No," he said softly, his touch echoing the effect of his voice. "You resisted us when we tried to pull you back," he explained carefully, his gaze intense on her skin. "It was unavoidable."

She thought over his words, trying to make sense of what could have led to such a violent struggle that would result in her skin being broken in so many places. He sensed her studying his face and finally looked up to meet her eyes. "I'm sorry."

She shook her head slowly, not knowing why. "You were only protecting me." There was a slight question to her voice, even though it wasn't a question.

Carlisle furrowed his brow, bringing out that tiny arrow-shaped wrinkle between his eyebrows.

Esme swallowed hard and looked down at the marks on her arm. "They burn."

The worry in his eyes rippled away, washed over by pooling desire. "Not for long."

Her confusion did not last but a second before he lifted her arm and placed his lips against her elbow. At first it looked like he was going to kiss it, but as soon as his tongue flicked over the wound, she understood how the strange process of healing worked.

His tongue grazed her, hot and soothing, to a dampened point over her vulnerable skin. Something furiously warm stirred in the pit of her belly as she watched him close his eyes, as if he were savoring the taste. When he lowered her arm for her to inspect, the wound had vanished completely, leaving not even the slightest scar behind.

She gasped in delight. "That's amazing."

"Your own venom would have done the job just as well, but waiting out several hours of natural healing isn't very pleasant," Carlisle said ruefully. She could tell from his voice that he had experienced this prolonged process of healing before. "Since it was my venom that created you, I have the power to seal your wounds instantaneously."

It wasn't often that Carlisle let pride infiltrate the tone of his voice, but right now Esme didn't mind the gloating beauty of his words one bit. With a convenient shrug, Esme let her sleeve slide further off her shoulder, inviting him to seal the rest of her wounds with his healing kisses.

His pink lips spread into an alluring smile, and a tempting twinkle touched his eye. He stepped closer to her, and his firm thigh brushed against her dangling leg, leaving behind a trail of fire. With reverent fingertips, he traced a slow, winding path up her arm until he marked his sensitive target on the curve of her shoulder. His head bowed low, and a wayward lock of his hair tickled her skin in warning.

Before she could prepare herself, the sweet sting of his venom met with her wound, igniting a tender heat deep beneath her flesh. The heat melted into glorious coolness as the essence of renewal coursed into her veins, working tiny miracles to put her back together.

He moved swiftly from her now flawless shoulder, up to the base of her neck where there were smaller scratches and gashes she could not see. As his tongue passed over each one, she felt the delicate spots curl with pleasure, little pinpricks of hot and cool sparkling beneath the surface of her skin. He helped seal each wound with a warm breath, a shield of heat to protect the newly healed skin.

Consumed by the spell of Carlisle's lingering kisses, Esme recalled a time long ago when her life had been a ruthless tragedy. A time when she had known no part but the victim, when everything went wrong no matter how hard she tried. It had all seemed so cruelly hopeless when she compared it to that one blissful evening when she met her doctor. Now he was hers forever. With every breath he took, he promised to heal her and stay by her side no matter what lay ahead.

His devotion would shine through in every move he made, even the littlest motions of his tongue as it eagerly painted her flesh in his venom. His entire body became a part of the healing process – his hands sweeping up and down her arms, his hips pushing gently against her knees, his strong neck bending impossible angles to reach places that would have otherwise been overlooked.

"Thank goodness we were already engaged when this happened, or else I might have burst," Esme admitted shakily as Carlisle's lips latched onto a particularly sensitive spot on her throat.

He made a pleased little noise from where he was buried in her neck, and the next time his mouth made contact with her skin she was quite certain it more resembled a purposeful kiss than a necessary lick.

As he diligently pressed his lips to her wounds, she continued her musings, "But then I wonder, would you have offered me this same 'treatment' had I not been your fiancée?"

Carlisle backed away slowly then, and his eyes held the luster of a thousand stars. In a voice both quiet and rough, he murmured, "Esme, I would have offered you this treatment when you were still a homely human girl."

"Don't say things like that," she hissed, as if scandalized by his less than gentlemanly confession. In truth it made her long for their wedding night to come sooner than time would permit.

She felt him smiling against her neck, and it made her squirm in delight. "It is the truth," he whispered from beneath her hair.

Hearing his voice wasn't enough then. There were moments when she felt she had to _see_ him, and this was one of those moments. With gentle hands, Esme guided Carlisle's head upright so that they could look into each other's faces.

His eyes stared down at her, so gold, like the wheat fields on her farm in Ohio. A gold so bright and so tender, not even the most well written fairytale could describe it. There was an earnest yet timid ache in his gaze that weakened her from the inside out.

"All my wounds are gone, Carlisle." Her voice was barely audible.

A smile crept onto his face – one so small she could have sworn she imagined it. "I've not finished healing you quite yet," he whispered back, in a voice so soft it felt as though he had kissed her with words. And somehow those words went deeper than she thought they should have.

She let her head tilt back in his capable hands as he resumed his gentle siege of kisses. As heavily distracted as she was, she hardly noticed when he reached down to let his fingertips lightly skim the swell of her breast over her dress.

It occurred to Esme then that Carlisle had not once attempted to touch her in such an intimate way before. His fingers had been at their boldest the day he had turned up the very end of her skirt to touch her knee. That was as far as he dared to go. Until now.

Her heart seemed to pulse back to life, like a startled bird fluttering away at a perceived threat. But the threat Carlisle posed to her was divine. His voice floated across her skin, caressing her with the sound of her own name. "Esme..."

On her arms, his fingers did incomprehensible things. Exploring, stroking, circling. And somehow the way he was touching her made her want to lie flat on her back, to receive the fullness of what he offered her, utterly incapable of resisting him. Instinct forced her to lean as far back as she could, but his hands were there before she could fall into the grass behind her.

The shock of her sudden imbalance had startled him as well. He pulled back when he caught her, breathing hard as he loomed over her. His lips were glistening when she finally saw his entire face. The dusky hue of a very early morning made his eyes glow like warm pink fire, and the angles of his jaw looked harsher than usual. There was something else in his eyes – something she could have sworn was anticipation. It was mesmerizing.

Slowly, he helped her to sit upright on the wall. He straightened his collar and pulled down on his vest, though it did nothing to make him look any less disheveled than he already was. He looked too beautiful this way. She had no idea why he would want to change that.

He closed his eyes, summoning his inner peace as he placed a controlled hand on his belly and exhaled deeply. It was his quiet way of telling her that they were meandering into territory meant only for man and wife.

When he opened his eyes again, she was feeling up the side of her neck, marveling silently at the healed skin that seemed even smoother than before. "The pain is gone now."

More pride than relief stirred in his gaze. "Good." He rubbed his knuckle affectionately along the underside of her chin.

Her smile faded. "If it happens again..."

"It won't," he interjected.

"But if it does," she continued, her firm voice becoming airy, "I want _this_ again." Her eyes closed in brief bliss as she relived the ravishing dance of his tongue on her neck. A chilly breeze shuddered around her body, wrapping her up in the dewy perfume of early morning.

Carlisle's accent weighed down his reply, heavy and honest. "You don't need to be injured for _this_ to happen again." His fingers gently gripped her hipbone, emphasizing the suggestive promise in his words as his lips ghosted down the side of her neck.

An involuntary cry broke softly from her throat. His fingers tightened on her hip, but at the same time he moved back, putting appropriate distance between their bodies. Their eyes met with gleaming understanding, joined by a mutual ache that grew more intense by the minute.

She wanted to thrash like a tempersome child in frustration. Because the man in front of her was so tall, and so beautiful, and breathing so hard, and he was _going _to be her husband. But he wasn't yet.

With a miraculously steady hand, she reached up and cupped the side of his face. His lips opened, and like a dream, he whispered out loud the very words she was thinking. "How I want you..."

She drew him in for a long kiss, one that was full of hunger, but also full of control. Because she was expecting to lose herself as soon as their lips touched, the kiss surprised her. Instead of making her wilder, it seemed to calm her. She felt filled, satiated, and content for the time being. It seemed to have affected Carlisle in the same way.

His lips parted from hers as his face pulled away slightly, and she looked down. His hand was moon pale and perfect as it covered hers, each finger strong and sure and trustworthy. The sun would not be rising for a while still, but she swore she could almost feel the beginnings of its heat touching her back.

Suddenly she realized how fortunate she was to still be in one piece after what had happened that night. She had been through so many close calls when it came to incidents concerning her blood lust. Neither Carlisle nor Edward deserved the aggravation that came with her always nearly slipping up. She felt horrible for the distress she had caused them. Reaching up with both hands, she drew Carlisle in for a tight hug, leaning into his strength. The stethoscope around his neck was cold against her cheek, but she didn't care.

"It turns my stomach to knots," she whimpered, her voice distant to her own ears.

"What does?" his concerned voice rumbled against her chest.

"What happened back there..."

His hands tightened across her back. "Do not dwell on it. It is over now."

But she needed to dwell on it at least a little bit. He had to understand that.

"I think it was more my anger that caused it than anything else," she began thoughtfully. "I was so desperate to prove to you and Edward that I could handle myself. When Edward said we needed to leave before I'd even had a chance, I became frustrated and I lost my composure."

Carlisle nodded his head in pity. "You will have your chance, Esme. But in the meantime, we do need to take all the precautions we see fit. Edward was only judging the situation based on what he thought you would be able to handle."

"I know that. And I am so sorry I reacted that way." Her fists clenched slightly at her sides as she thought back on the memory. "But I'm afraid I'll never be able to control my reactions. There are times when I want to be so...violent."

To her surprise, Carlisle's expression was warm and understanding, not shocked. "That is completely natural for a vampire of your age, Esme."

"But shouldn't all of that have changed by now?" she demanded dubiously. "I'm hardly a newborn anymore, Carlisle."

"That may be true, but you are still a very young vampire. Your emotional responses can be very powerful and uncontrollable, especially when you are facing a period of extreme change."

"Change like learning to be around humans?" she queried innocently before another thought popped into her head. "Or like...marrying you?"

A cool night wind caused his blond hair to ripple, and the white wings of his collar to flutter in resistance. "Perhaps a bit of both." He tilted his head in sympathy as he considered her situation. "You have a lot on your mind these days, Esme. It can be challenging to take everything in at once."

She frowned. "I just wish I had the patience to overcome my weaknesses."

"You will _acquire _the patience, Esme. Some things don't happen overnight." He gave her a wry little smile. "Actually, _most_ things don't."

She hated the fact that she still couldn't manage a smile in return. Carlisle's face changed into an expression of sweet determination as he stared hard into her eyes for a moment.

"Esme, did you swim often when you were human?"

Thinking the question more than odd, she squinted and gave him a wry smile before nodding. "Yes..."

"Can you think back to a time when keeping your head above water required persistent effort, or else you would drown?"

"Yes, I remember."

"Well, imagine you are a human again, and you're treading water in the middle of a lake," he began in a wise voice. "You can hardly expect to keep your head above water all of the time. Sometimes you need to hold your breath and let yourself fall under for a few moments. If you try too hard to stay above the surface for too long, you'll only end up sinking." His eyes lit up with a genuine smile. "And I certainly don't want to see my fiancée lying at the bottom of the lake..." he added in a whisper.

Though she believed every word he said, Esme couldn't help but giggle when he nuzzled her affectionately. "Lessons in buoyancy from Doctor Cullen," she mused with a smirk.

He lifted his head upright and looked down at her like a proud prince. "Take it from a man who swam the English Channel."

Timidly, Esme settled her small hands against his chest and sighed. "I'll take anything from that man." And she meant it.

His eyes plunged into darkness as he swept his arms around her and pulled her into a sublime embrace.

And Esme suddenly believed that starting over was not such a scary thing.

**-}0{-**

Every day he took her hand, and every day he guided her through the shadowy caves of her worries. With his gentle determination and her renewed faith, she was brought to face her greatest fear of blood-lust, with her head held high, and he the beautiful rock behind her.

He lit the blessed path with the light of his compassion, and fueled her spirits with the warmth of his undying love. Every time she faltered, all he had to do was tighten his hand, whisper one word, breathe against her shoulder...and she found her balance.

Three weeks was all it took. Every day, he made time for her after he came back from the hospital. Every day he helped her take a few more steps toward conquering her fear. Seeing his staggering devotion, Esme felt more with every day that agreeing to marry this man had been the wisest decision she had ever made.

It happened faster than she thought it would. Even faster than learning to count or recite the alphabet. She couldn't explain how it happened, either. One day she was too nervous to approach the outskirts of a populated town, and the next she was breezing down the sidewalks with Carlisle's arm around her waist, greeting people with a nod of her head and a smile as she held her breath.

Then one day Carlisle told her to breathe, so she did.

Either her doctor's prayers were working, or it was simply a miracle. Or perhaps it was God giving his blessing for them to marry at last.

She met three people that day. Mister Bell, the banker, Mister Patricks, the hospital janitor, and Miss Keller, the town librarian.

They all smiled at her. And they all seemed so incomprehensibly kind. She kept herself from breathing when she was face to face with them, allowing Carlisle to do most of the talking. Whenever she walked away from each of them, she let herself breathe again, slowly at first, adjusting to the scent of their blood from a safer distance. The scent of their blood was more tempting than Esme could bear, but bear it she did. She could not explain how, and neither could Carlisle.

But he was right. All along, he was right about what it would be like. All things one must learn in life were very much the same. It started out as something intimidating and impossible, but after hard work, dedication, practice, and a good dose of faith, it turned out fine. Somehow she had thought it wouldn't be that simple, but at the end, it was.

The more she cooked, the less she burned herself. The more she practiced piano, the faster she could play. The more she visited town, the better she could control herself around humans. It was all the same.

She had never seen Carlisle looking so proud. It made every hardship leading up to this point in her life worth the pain.

They made a swift departure when the clouds threatened to clear for the evening, and she already knew they would spend the rest of the night recounting all the wonderful things that had happened that day in town. She would forever remember it with fondness as the first day she had been introduced to new people as a vampire, a day she thought would never come.

"I knew it," he murmured to her as they walked back into the woods. He looked so triumphant as he stared ahead, confident and hopeful of the future. "I knew it would happen this way. Somehow, I knew all along."

Esme leaned into his arm as they walked beside each other, still reeling from her accomplishments that day. "It seemed too good to come true."

"So did many other things," Carlisle pointed out. "And now all of those things have come true, have they not?"

She nodded slowly against him, considering all those other things she thought she would never have. A loving husband, a new family, a home to call her own, and a second chance at life.

"I still can't believe it," she sighed, her voice still shaking from the rush. "I spoke to them. I spoke to other people." It may have just been a quick _hello, _and an even quicker _goodbye, _but it was more than enough to convince her it was possible.

Carlisle grinned down at her. "And they all adored you."

In town, he had introduced her as his 'friend', but it must have been obvious to everyone that she was much more to him than that. True, they probably thought she was incredibly shy because she spoke so little, but Esme loved the idea that people could tell with just a glance that she and Carlisle were inseparable. She loved being able to show the world that they were partners, that their lives were irreversibly intertwined, and they belonged together.

Her heart squirmed happily inside her chest as they approached a trickling creek ahead of their path. The woods were lit almost instantly by a flood of coral sun rays, making the shallow line of water sparkle. Their skin sparkled even brighter, and as they were safely concealed by the deep woods, they did not have to hide it.

Every new obstacle they might have to face now seemed adventurous and appealing rather than daunting. With Carlisle by her side, anything was possible. Interacting with humans was the last thing Esme needed before she could move on with her life.

As the thought sank in, she stopped him before they could cross the small bridge to the other side of the creek. "Carlisle." She said his name in a way she had never heard herself say it before. "You know what this means..."

Sunset soaked his face as he turned to look down at her, and one of his fingers stretched forward to trace her engagement ring. He had never looked happier as he whispered wistfully, "I can finally make you my wife."

* * *

**You can read Chapter 38: "Sealing the Wounds" in Behind Stained Glass for Carlisle's POV of this chapter. **


	60. Eternal Covenant

**Chapter 60: **

**Eternal Covenant**

* * *

Something about the word _church_ made her hands ache. Carlisle might say the word in passing, and every time he said it, she felt it. That bittersweet shudder of sorrow trembling through an unseen passage from her heart to her hands.

Church was there for you when nothing else in the world was. It was a sanctuary filled with light in a hollow place filled with blackness. It was a family to those who had none, a mother to all orphans, a treasure cave to the destitute.

Something in Carlisle's beckoning eyes said _"I need to be rescued," _whenever he spoke of going to relied on this institution for courage and hope in a dreary world. But he could be _her _church, and she really wouldn't need anything else. His eyes would be her stained glass windows, his feet would be her altar, his lips would speak all the heavenly words she needed to hear.

In any other circumstance, Esme would not have been going to see a church that morning. But she had asked Carlisle to show her the place where they would be getting married, and he had all too joyfully obliged her. As Carlisle drove them to the cathedral early that morning, Esme remembered a time in her human life when she had been just as passionate about attending church every week. It hadn't felt like a chore, unlike all the other things she was made to do on the farm where she grew up.

A weak smile crossed her lips as she stared out the window and tried to summon the fleeting images of her childhood home. The land here in Ashland was both flat in some parts and mountainous in others, but she recalled the land in Ohio being flat as an ocean of grass. Above her head a pair of birds danced below the clouds, following the car up the road.

"Carlisle, tell me again about my farm back in Ohio."

Every so often she would ask him to remind her of bits and pieces of her lost childhood, and every time he answered her request, he had something new to share.

"There was green grass for as far as the eye could see, dandelions everywhere, and barely any trees." Esme closed her eyes and began to imagine the scene he described. His soft voice could make even the most mundane setting sound mystical. "There were some small hills in the back and a red and white barn with horses outside. And your house was narrow, with a brown roof and white shutters. And around the house there was a picket fence, with wild raspberries growing up the sides of it." He playfully trailed his fingers up the side of her arm as he described the raspberries growing up the fence, and she giggled and opened her eyes.

"I love the way you describe it."

"One day we'll visit your hometown again," he promised, his steady eyes fixed on the road ahead of him.

Minutes later they arrived on the outskirts of Ashland town, where the road blended from dirt and gravel to evenly placed bricks. From the car window Esme could see the grand cathedral that stretched up to the sky beyond the trees. It was secluded in a most favorable way from the rest of the town, and as far as she could see, no people were lingering on the property.

Carlisle parked the car on the side of the road beneath the shade of a tree and escorted her to the hidden entrance of the church. The interior was cool and hollow, and every breath echoed back to her from the long stretch of aisle inside. The rough blue stones in the walls made her feel like she was inside a castle from a fairytale.

As he walked from the vestibule into the church interior, Carlisle's face was pale as ivory, his hair glowing under the faint white beams that filtered through the stained glass. Even through a cloudy sky, his supernatural skin caught the multi-colored sparkles, and she fell breathless against the stone column behind her as she watched his expression transform into an ethereal image of utter humility. Until that moment, she supposed, she had never truly known what beauty there existed in genuine reverence.

She watched him silently as he walked the distance to the altar and knelt before the shallow steps, blessing himself and bowing his head before the monumental image of Christ. Carlisle was the last man on earth who _needed _to be here, and yet he was here alone, the only man willing to abandon his pride before a higher power.

Esme folded her hands and walked briskly down the aisle, feeling smaller and smaller in size the closer she got to the front of the church, but more and more significant. Upon reaching the front bench, she knelt and blessed herself as Carlisle had done, and moved to sit beside him, as close as possible without touching.

He said nothing, only breathed steadily, his eyes downcast under thick lashes. She had the distinct feeling that something was troubling him, but maybe this was only what people looked like while in prayer.

Oddly, she still felt she did not fully belong in this place, even though everyone was supposed to feel that they belonged in the house of God. She would not have felt God here, if not for the man who had accompanied her. Carlisle had taught her that she was worth so much more than she dared to give herself credit for. And he would soon teach her that God's presence was boundless, even in the life of a vampire.

"You came here," she said softly as it suddenly dawned on her, her gaze fixed on the brilliant candlelit mosaic of Christ behind the altar.

Carlisle turned to look at her questioningly, and she faced him.

"Those Sundays in the spring when Edward took me out to the greenhouse," she explained, piecing it together before his eyes. "You came to liturgy."

"I'd been missing it," he admitted in a strangely sheepish way, and then she remembered why.

She cast her eyes down miserably, memories flooding with the blood battles she had been made to endure in her trying newborn months. "I'm so sorry."

"It isn't your fault, love," his voice was warm, "The choice was mine. I chose to stay with you and Edward. I believe it was God's will that I stay."

She was touched. "You speak of God like you know Him," she said with mild incredulity, gesturing to the apse before them.

Carlisle stared at her, his golden eyes filled with interest, telling her to continue.

"I think it's extraordinary for one of our kind to maintain such a strong relationship with God when..." she drifted off shamefully, averting her eyes when she saw the slight ironic smirk of disbelief cross his lips.

"God has not abandoned us, Esme," he whispered with the faintest reprimand. "We may not be human, but I do believe we still possess our souls. The soul does not perish. We are told this in the Bible." He sounded so sure of it that she could not help but accept his words as the truth when he said them. "Our souls live on; they are what allow us to love, and thus to also be one with the Lord." He made passionate gestures with his hands as he spoke, like he was filling his heart, then presenting it to the image of Christ before him.

"You and I..." He said the words with such devotion, it made her tremble. She looked up at him with doe-like eyes gleaming in the candlelight, urging him to continue. "We would never feel what we feel for each other if we had no souls."

Her expression brightened softly, and her eyes at once agreed. "How does Edward not see that?" she questioned wistfully.

Carlisle looked vaguely amused. "He is not blind to my theories, but he has not seen time pass as I have. He was born into a vastly different world than I was, and as much as he denies it, this did shape his opinions of our kind...and religion."

"_I _believe your theories, but Edward and I were both raised during the same era," she pointed out, hoping to find some way they could all agree.

Carlisle cocked his head with a sanguine smile. "Well, now, the world was much more obsessed with religion when I was human. It was the often the greatest priority in a man's life, no matter what his position," he explained before his expression grew sad. "As time goes on, it seems society has been drifting further and further away from God."

Esme sighed. "I suppose I don't know any more than what I learned growing up."

"Were your parents quite religious?" he inquired lightly.

"They weren't exactly zealots, although they often did mention the 'wrath of God' with the intent to frighten me into behaving."

Carlisle thought for a long moment before he spoke thoughtfully. "It's a shame that so many people have always made God out to be an unforgiving Pantokrator. They say it to protect us from sin, but it only helps to draw ourselves further away from Him."

Esme shrugged, unable to see the shame in that. "God _is _our judge."

"Yes, but He is not _judgmental_," Carlisle added with a taut smirk.

She furrowed her brow, and his smirk evened into a patient smile. "God is all-forgiving, Esme. He will never hesitate to forgive us for our sins, so long as we are _truly _repentant."

"He will forgive us for _anything?_" she asked with shy skepticism, suddenly ashamed to discover she knew very little about the ways of the Lord after all.

"Anything," Carlisle confirmed, his tone one of gentle solidity. Relief washed through her in a small revelation, though it seemed something she had already known to be true deep down all along.

She bit her lip unsurely and tapped her fingers over her knees, thinking it through.

"He does not ruthlessly punish us for our transgressions either, despite what others may have told you," Carlisle continued gently, catching on to the fact that her less than enlightened upbringing had left her in the dark. "He loves us unconditionally, as we are meant to love Him back."

Esme thought about the words, letting them sink in for a while before she felt the need to justify her own nature.

"I've never hated God," she blurted quietly, almost defensively, and she saw Carlisle turn to gaze at her. "Not even after all I'd been through. I suppose I was too afraid to hate Him."

She looked over at Carlisle, who met her gaze for a short second before he cast his eyes down in deep concentration, staring at her knees with a stern expression.

She continued, "I never blamed Him, though I came close to it." Carlisle's amber eyes came up to meet Esme's sorrowfully, but she offered him a comfortable smile. "I'm glad I didn't. He has justly rewarded me," she whispered, and reached over to take her doctor's hand in hers.

Carlisle smiled distantly, looking down at their joined hands. After a moment, he drew her close to lay her head on his shoulder, and he placed his chin over her head.

"We're going to be married in this cathedral," he said softly against her hair, welcoming a more joyous topic of discussion.

A swift smile crossed her face. "It's beautiful. I can't imagine a more perfect place."

Her hand curled around his within his lap, and he sighed. "I never imagined myself taking a wife," he confessed breathlessly.

Esme pulled out from underneath his chin to gaze up at him, her eyes glittering flirtatiously. "Carlisle, you'd have to be a fool to believe no woman would _want _to be your wife."

He smiled shyly and it looked as though he were coming close to laughing, but he never did. "No, it isn't that. I just never envisioned marriage as a part of the life I would lead," he clarified with a small shrug.

"Would you have become a pastor, do you think?" she asked timidly. Watching the way his eyes traveled reverently over the art of the altar, she realized she already knew the answer.

"My father was adamant that I become like him," said Carlisle. "I suppose deep down I also knew the priesthood was my calling, though I would never admit to him that I found his particular tactics somewhat less appealing as a Christian."

"Hm," she mused silently, coming back down to the comfortable concrete pillow of his shoulder. "You would have made a wonderful priest."

He chuckled. "Perhaps, but I'd much rather be marrying you."

His hand curved affectionately around the back of her neck beneath her hair, and she looked down at her knees again as tiny trickles of effervescent warmth danced through the pit of her belly.

She failed to conceal a telling whimper, and Carlisle lifted his head in concern.

"What is it?"

"Sometimes," she began in a feeble voice, "the prospect of—marriage—makes me nervous."

"Why do you say that?" He did not sound particularly shocked, but he _did _sound innocently offended, almost saddened, which was worse as far as she was concerned. Too late, she wished she hadn't said anything.

"I don't really know why," she tried to be casual about her confusion, but her tone was inherently dark. "Because of my past, I suppose."

Esme had not had a pleasant experience with the 'sacrament' in her previous life. It would have been ironic if she were to find true happiness in the union only in death. Now, though, it was not so outrageous a thing to imagine.

Carlisle placed one hand over her knee and more restless tickling fireworked in her belly at the chaste contact. "Your prior experience of marriage was like that of a prison, Esme. You were bound to a man who did not love you, and you had no means of escape."

Her chin trembled slightly, but her will to sob ceased as the man beside her leaned closer, warming her, reminding her that she was forever free of that prison now.

"I understand _why _you continue to fear it for that reason—truly, I do." His voice softened so much that it was little more than a faint but urgent whisper, and it literally made her heart sore to hear it. "But you must believe that matrimony is an inherently _good _thing. God _encourages _this union."

She shuddered slightly at the implications of the last word, but he did not notice.

"I put my faith in God from the very beginning that, should He bring a woman into my life, she would be the only one He'd made for me. It took an awfully long time to find you, but here we are. Some miracles take centuries." Like an angel in the colored light from the windows, he smiled down at her, and she blushed inside.

He had just called her his _miracle_.

She closed her eyes with a tight smile and clutched his hand above her knee. "I would gladly accept marriage as a prison if it meant being imprisoned with you," she whispered with a sad laugh.

But Carlisle's voice was serious when he spoke again. "You will merely be joined to me. This is the eternal covenant." He truly did sound like a priest when he spoke that way.

"Covenant," she repeated the curious term under her breath. He tilted her chin up with two fingers and she opened her lashes shyly for his gaze.

"The promise to remain faithful and devoted completely to one another until death." He swallowed, and a faint glint of uncertainty entered his eye.

"There is no death for us." She smiled wryly up at him, her eyes helplessly dropping to his lips in silent suggestion.

"Then it truly is an eternal covenant," he sighed in acceptance, and gently pulled her toward him to meld their lips in soft, warm harmony.

After so long without a proper kiss from him, the gesture was twice as powerful, especially here in the church with only the silent eyes of stained glass windows as witness. The dimming colors of the windows shattered in his caring eyes as he gazed down at her, breathless from the kiss. All she saw in his eyes was love, and those tempting flashes of forbidden passion she couldn't believe belonged to him.

He fondly traced her chin with his thumb, grazed his lips against hers once more, then took her hand in his. He tugged her gently until she rose from the pew and followed him into the aisle. He genuflected to the altar, the movement graceful and practiced, and he looked so beautiful on one knee. He blessed himself with the sign of the cross, and she did the same, unaware of how significant the gesture could be when one was in a church.

Carlisle gave one last wistful look at the altar over his shoulder before he escorted Esme outside. They walked back home together in comfortable silence, and he gently pinched the tip of her nose when he thought she might have trouble resisting certain scents, reminding her that it was alright not to breathe for a little bit if it helped her.

Even if she held her breath the entire way back, Esme felt accomplished every time she walked among people. She felt brave just for breaking free of the comfort of her home, and even braver for doing it as often as the opportunity presented itself. Every time she did it, she felt she was becoming more and more a part of the outside world. And one day, she would again be a part of that world, as Carlisle's wife.

**-}o{-**

The date was set.

Even now, she could barely believe it was happening. With every hour that passed, she came closer to fulfilling her most treasured dream. On July twenty-fourth, Carlisle would be her husband.

They had set the date casually and quickly, only because it worked with Carlisle's schedule at the hospital. He had reserved his days off for a short leave of absence leading up to and following the wedding. No word had gotten out yet that Doctor Cullen was engaged. Esme had a hunch that several of Edward's schoolmates may have known, but those things were better left unmentioned.

When Carlisle came home from visiting patients one evening in early July, he had sat down with her over a chessboard in the sitting room and began discussing his plans for the wedding.

He did not personally know the parish priest in St. Andrew's Cathedral, so he decided to ask Father Simon, the residing priest at St. Thomas More Hospital to initiate the ceremony. Esme could sense from the way Carlisle spoke of Father Simon that may have had some significant exchanges with him in the past. It broke her heart a little to think of how deeply Carlisle wanted more intimate relationships with the people he saw every day. Any excuse to see someone outside of his place of work was thrilling, but when they could be a part of his marriage ceremony, it was even better. Carlisle's delight with the situation was uncontainable.

He rambled on cheerfully about how easy it had been to get permission to use the church on a weekday, and how surprised he was that Father Simon had never married a couple since he moved to Ashland. Esme found it very hard to concentrate on her chess moves, distracted as she was by Carlisle's infectious joy as he blindly shifted pieces around on the board. His fingers were restless, wasting not an instant from the time she set one of her pieces down before he picked up one of his own. Judging by the way the game was unfolding, it was apparent that neither of them was very invested in winning. No advanced strategy could have produced such a non-confrontational arrangement of chess pieces on the board between them. It had been at least half an hour since they'd started playing, yet each side of the board was still evenly split with dominating white and black characters.

Although it was clear at this rate the game would never come to an end, Esme still thought it was time well spent. Simply watching Carlisle, so wistful and happy as he discussed their wedding, was entertainment enough for her.

He would glance out the window every so often, as if checking to see that the sky was still dark, assuring himself that there was still time to exhaust every last detail of what they could expect when their big day arrived. When he was not looking out the window or surveying the state of the chessboard, he was staring at her, his eyes loaded with love and devotion enough to shame a thousand other hopeful husbands. Because she couldn't bear to look back at him when he stared at her like that, Esme kept her eyes trained on the board as a bashful smile threatened her lips.

She had never imagined that Carlisle could talk this much about anything. Granted, he had his moments where he couldn't keep quiet, particularly when one started him talking about medicine or philosophy, but this kind of chatter was entirely new to her. He did not talk in an annoyingly fast pace, as many people did when they rambled, but he did manage to fit an impressive number of words into each sentence. His unrelated thoughts strung together, making what he was saying that much harder to follow. But Esme did her absolute best to keep up with him, because good wives listened to their husbands, no matter how mildly eccentric their topic of conversation might be.

There was a distinct tone of enthusiastic awe in Carlisle's voice as he spoke, which she found incredibly endearing. Sometimes he would say something half to himself, as if he forgot that she was still listening, and he would tilt his head in a sheepish way and smile at some unseen spot on the carpet. Once in a while he would shift in his chair and stretch his legs beneath the table they shared. At one point his knee brushed quite purposefully against hers, and a tingling heat sprouted from the place they touched, reaching all the way to the back of her neck.

To Esme's fascination, Carlisle talked about the wedding and shifted chess pieces around the board and brushed knees with her all night long. The horizon was just starting to turn pink when he finally managed to put her in check.

And Esme was utterly beside herself.

Appreciating the sweet stalemate, he stared across the board at her, an expectant sparkle in his eye. "I know a wonderful pair of seamstresses in town. Two sisters. Delightful women. I'm sure I could commission them to make a gown for you."

After all the stress of worrying if she'd be successful in controlling her resistance around humans, Esme hadn't even had time to dream about wedding gowns and color schemes and everything else that other brides considered to be of most vital importance. But now that Carlisle had mentioned her having a gown, she suddenly felt dizzy with happiness at the thought.

"Do you think so?"

He nodded, sizing her up dreamily with his eyes. "We can have your measurements taken sometime this week... If you're comfortable with that, of course."

Esme nodded slowly, unsure if she would be able to stand still long enough while two human women took her measurements. The breath holding trick could only take her so far.

Not wanting to risk sounding like a coward in front of Carlisle, she agreed to try.

He sent her an appreciative smile, and tapped his knuckles teasingly against the unresolved chess board before he stood up to stretch. She had only to see his longing gaze as he stared out the window to know exactly what he wanted to do next. "I think I'd like to walk for a while. Will you join me?"

Smiling at her correct guess, Esme nodded eagerly and offered him her hand. They strolled across the grass and through the garden in comfortable silence while the sun took its time rising in the distance.

After hours of planning refurbishment for the estate's garden, Esme found that her work was cut out for her once summer came. She had planted so few seeds that she feared none of them would show even if it did rain nonstop for two weeks, but she could not have been more wrong. To her extreme joy, flowers protruded from every crack in the concrete, vines and ivy wrapped around the marble statuary, and bumblebees carried pollen tirelessly from blossom to blossom. Carlisle complimented the beauty of the garden, gushing over how much improvement he noticed from the year prior. Esme guiltily accepted his praise, knowing in secret that nearly all of it had been the doing of nature alone.

After a few minutes of walking hand in hand, Carlisle dropped her hand to slide his arm further around her waist. Drawing her much closer to his body, he swiftly traded "hand in hand" for "hip against hip" as they walked. And Esme flushed inwardly, knowing no socially proper couple would ever walk this way through a public park.

But they were not in public.

From this subtle change in body language, she quickly gathered that Carlisle was inviting her closer, not only physically, but emotionally. Through discreet and gentle tactics, he was sending her the message that his defenses were down, and she was welcome to take advantage of his defenselessness.

"You've been very quiet all night," he finally remarked. She had known it was coming, but that didn't stop her from being surprised when he mentioned it out loud.

She leaned into his chest as he walked, trying to hide from his penetrating gaze. Sighing heavily, she attempted to shift the attention off of her. "I don't think I've been any quieter than usual," she said innocently. "You've just been very...loquacious."

This made him chuckle – a low, soothing sound that tickled her eardrums. "I suppose I have."

"I don't mind," she said honestly, tucking her head deeper under his arm. "I like listening to you."

His fingers squeezed her arm as they shared a shy smile. "Even when I ramble?"

"We both have a tendency to ramble, Carlisle, but I think we can agree that your version of 'rambling' is the more bearable of the two."

He laughed again at her remark, but his laughter was heartier this time. The sound was exhilarating and free, and it reminded her of a crackling fireside – which, in the middle of summer, brought far too much heat to her face.

"Now that you mention it, we've been walking through this garden for nearly ten minutes and I've not heard you utter one word about how many more kinds of flowers you wished you'd planted," he said in a teasing voice.

She ducked her head at first, earning her a few more gentle crackles from the fire. Then she nudged him back with a witty reply. "I figured I'd let you do the talking for the rest of the day. You were off to quite an impressive start last night."

Carlisle's eyes grew misty as he recalled their distinctly one-sided chess game. "I'm sorry. I'm just very excited," he said in a rushed voice, just as his smile began to fade, "...and a little nervous."

Esme looked up at him in surprise. "For the wedding?"

The look in his eyes as he stared at her was almost hard, full of stark awareness – but it lasted only an instant before he looked back to the ground. His face softened, looking positively angelic as he licked his bottom lip and stretched out his hand to touch the flowers that sprouted from the bush beside him.

"I don't know," he whispered, his expression so young and so shy she hardly recognized him. He then let the palm of his hand graze the very tops of the flower buds, slowly moving it back and forth across the overgrown shrubbery. Then, even softer, he repeated, "I don't know."

Esme fitted the curve of her hand to the underside of his chin, caressing him for comfort. She watched as he plucked a tiny blue cornflower from the bush and stroked its petals with unbearable finesse.

"You should wear something blue on our wedding day," he said suddenly, as if the color of the flower had reminded him. He elaborated in a secretive whisper, "It is a symbol of purity." Gently, he tucked the little blue flower into her hair, his eyes overflowing with fondness.

Her hand on his chin began to tremble as he bent down to kiss her.

Every time he did this, she wondered how she had been so blessed to have him as her soul mate. She loved him so deeply now, and to know that her love would be just as fervently received by him was thrilling. Her love for him was pure and untouched by superficialities, but the fact remained that Carlisle was a man of astonishing handsomeness. And though her love for him had so little to do with his appearance, his beauty only heightened the intimate, emotional love she felt for him on the inside.

It was indeed a rare kind of love they shared.

Carlisle had developed a curious little habit where he would stroke her bottom lip lightly with the back of his finger, just after he had kissed her...as if he were feeling to be sure that the lips he had just kissed were still there, still real. The sensitive little gesture left her with a sweet chill every time he did it.

As he lifted his finger to complete the reverent little caress, Esme let her lashes flutter open to look up into his eyes. "You tell me so much in just one kiss."

"There are some things words simply cannot say." His usually faint accent was so strong, he sounded like a stranger. But he was anything but a stranger now. Every day she got to know him more intimately, and it was beginning to take its toll on her heart.

"I love you so much it hurts, Carlisle," she whimpered softly.

Affliction gleamed in his eyes as his hand engulfed hers. "I can't bear the thought of you in pain."

Shaking her head slowly, she pressed her hand to her breast. "It is a pain in my heart."

"I know it," he tenderly insisted. "I know it well." The regretful sorrow broke in his voice as he held her against his chest, stroking her hair. "When we are married, Esme, I will give you everything you thought you could never have."

"You've already given me that."

He pulled away just enough to look into her eyes. "I will never stop giving." His voice was firm and his eyes were soft, a fascinating contrast that made her trust him all the more.

"Neither will I," she whispered. She sealed her lips to his and grasped his hand in both of hers, finding his fingers still moist with morning dew from the flower he had picked. "I missed this," she sighed desperately, lacing her fingers between his.

He moaned softly in agreement against her. "I feel complete...every time our lips touch," he murmured between kisses. "A oneness..." His voice lowered with every word, searching for a way to describe what he felt. "A fullness...so satisfying..."

Esme happily endured more earnest kissing, wondering if this would all change once they were married. After they'd done much more than just kiss, would kissing still hold the same thrill as it did right now?

Long after, he pulled out of the kiss, his face all pink and unimaginably handsome in the glistening sunrise. "Come inside with me," he said. "I have something to show you."

All her deep thoughts of kissing were replaced by thoughts of what he could possibly need to show her. As he pulled her along into the house, through the hall, and back into his study, the faint smell of freshly dried oil paints gave her a hint as to what awaited her.

He gave her hand a quick squeeze before letting go, and he moved to the window to pull the red curtain away from the canvas that had been hiding behind it all along.

The familiar blue painting of their beloved backyard lake greeted her curious eyes. Many of its features were still the same – the detailed ripples, the pronounced highlights around the moon, the stippling of silver along the branches of the trees. But more of those details had been perfected after months of painting, like a beautiful child whose face had finally matured into that of an even more beautiful adult. It now shimmered before her, as vivid and stark as a color photograph.

That painting was so perfect in her eyes, it could have been hanging in a national art gallery. With a fond smile, she imagined how the title might be engraved into a plate beneath the canvas. _"Lake Cordial by Moonlight," by Carlisle Cullen, 1922. _

As she studied it in breathless wonder, the artist himself hung back, watching her with bated breath as if waiting for a critique.

"Oh, Carlisle. It's even more beautiful than I remembered."

He moved closer to where she stood, relief evident in the way he carried himself. "That's because the last time you saw it, it was only half-finished," he teased.

She shook her head with an amused smile, gripping his elbow in both her hands as they stared at the painting together. "You put your soul into this painting," she murmured, pressing a quick kiss to his clothed shoulder. "That is what makes it beautiful."

He was quiet for a while before he finally said, "I want to hang it somewhere in the house."

She glanced up at him curiously. "Not here in your study?"

He still did not look at her, but a strange, almost uncomfortable expression colored his face. "No..."

"In the music room?" she guessed again.

"The walls are _red_ in the music room," he reminded her, a tiny smirk on his face like he knew a secret she didn't. She didn't blame his reaction. It wasn't like her to clash colors when it came to interior decorating; she was usually notoriously aware of details like that.

"Oh, of course," she muttered, feeling silly. "That wouldn't look right at all." She tilted her head to the side and reconsidered the painting.

And suddenly, the heartfelt blue and deep violet tones of that painting were undeniable to which room they matched. A thrilling tingle inched up her back as she felt Carlisle's arm move inside her grip.

As the clock ticked through the silence, she still played coy. "What room did you have in mind?"

He paused for a second that lasted too long, as if waiting to see if she would guess first and spare him having to say it out loud.

But he did not sound at all shy when he finally admitted it. "I want to hang it in the bedroom upstairs."

It was likely just her imagination, but when he said the word "bedroom," his voice seemed agonizingly erotic, and at least an octave deeper.

She turned her head to stare at him, speechless.

His eyes were both innocent and possessive as he asked quietly, "Will you come help me find a place for it?"

Coming quickly to her senses, she nodded and whispered shakily, "I'd love to."

Only one side of his mouth managed to smile, and as he passed his desk to pick up the painting, she noticed that he also swiped a single nail to hang it on the wall. As she followed him upstairs, she could see him twisting the nail nervously in his right hand the entire way.

The second floor hallway never seemed so dark before. And Carlisle had never looked as strong as he did just carrying that moderately sized canvas up the stairs.

The door to the master bedroom was cracked open just a little bit. All Carlisle had to do was nudge it lightly with his shoulder, and it swung open eagerly to let him inside. Esme followed timidly, with her hands wrung in front of her lap.

The bedroom looked warm and inviting in the early morning, despite how vast it was. She knew that it looked beautiful at dusk too – in a darker, more forbidden way. Anxious though she may have been to walk into this bedroom at night with Carlisle, she secretly couldn't wait to see how it would look on their wedding night. The fact that Carlisle's painting would be hanging on the wall somewhere on that night would make it even more nostalgic and romantic.

This morning, the walls were soaked in dim purple sunlight, and soft brownish shadows swept like paint strokes across the carpets. Carlisle looked heartwrenchingly beautiful in the splash of sparkling sun as he glided into the room, like an angel in his loose white shirt and gray trousers. He pocketed the small silver nail and used both hands to carry his canvas, holding it out steadily in front of him like the delicate treasure it was.

It made her stomach burn to see him in this room, walking about freely as if it belonged to him. In a way, she supposed, the room had been his first. He was the owner of the house, however kind he had been to let her stay in the master bedroom when she'd started living with him. Now things were different. The room was not hers, it was _theirs. _Though neither of them had really said it out loud, that fact was never more clear to her than it was tonight, as Carlisle searched for the best place to hang his finished painting.

While Esme watched him move eagerly about the room, she suddenly wanted nothing more than to peel all the clothes away from his body. More than anything else right then, she wanted to see his hips. She had a thought that they might somehow be even paler than the rest of his body, and that thought was tremendously appealing.

She tried to close off those thoughts as he stood in front of the wall by the armoire, lifting his painting up to test how it would look in the lighting there. He stood with his feet shoulder width apart, his neck tilted far back to consider the space at a reasonable angle. All he did was shift his position, and she wanted more than anything to see his bare back, smooth and long and broad. She dreamed of the way his muscles would bunch up when he tossed his shoulders back, how his shoulder blades would rise beneath his sinewy flesh.

He readjusted the placement of his left foot as he held the painting higher up, and then she was thinking about his legs, how strong they would look when they stretched out over her bed.

He stepped forward to slide his painting slightly to the right, and the sun shimmered on the exposed skin of his neck and hands. And then Esme decided she just needed to see _all of him_, dressed in nothing but pale skin and candlelight, with his arms reaching out for her in a desperate embrace.

The bed behind her suddenly became a daunting entity. It felt like a whole other presence sharing the room with them, or a salacious beast spying on their innocent diversions. The ridiculousness of her thoughts made her face feel white-hot, but those thoughts multiplied before she could control them, swarming her mind and attacking her heart.

She was thinking of how soft she knew those pillows were, and how Carlisle was fluent in languages like French and Italian, and how he used to be obsessed with growing roses in his garden back in Florence, and how much he had to control his strength when he touched his patients in the hospital. And she thought of the way he held a paintbrush, and the way he washed his hands in the sink, and the way he pulled the curtains over the windows in his study during the day when he craved darkness. Then she thought of how he was actually born centuries ago in Europe, not so long after the dark ages, and how he was raised to believe vampires were purely evil creatures. She thought of how young he was when he was bitten and made to suffer through the horrible transformation all alone, and how he probably always hoped he would have children of his own one day, and now he never could.

All the while, as her mind was assaulted by these strange and random thoughts, Carlisle strutted blissfully around the bedroom, holding his painting experimentally up against every wall in sight.

"What do you think?"

His question snapped her out of her reverie. "Hm?"

"Right here," he said, holding the painting up against the wall space between two windows. "How does this look?"

"I think it looks perfect everywhere."

He smirked at her, in a way that was both loving and sheepish. "You're the expert decorator. You must have an opinion."

"I'm only being honest," she murmured sincerely. "You could place it on any wall."

He looked around. "I haven't tried the wall behind the bed yet."

She flamed again at the simple mention of the bed, glancing quickly over her shoulder and swallowing hard as she took in the broad wooden headboard and soft blue draperies.

"Don't put it on the wall behind the bed," she stuttered when she saw where he was headed, wincing at the sound of her voice.

He stopped short after taking a few steps toward the wall in question. "Why not?"

"Because...I want to be able to see it _from_ the bed." Every time the word 'bed' was repeated, it felt like a little stab in her belly.

Carlisle's expression changed as he thought on her suggestion, his eyes filling up with beautiful and mysterious things she could only hope to name. Dimples appeared in both his cheeks as he struggled against a mystified smile. "Oh," was all he whispered in response.

She fought hard not to immediately cover her face with her hands as he stared at her with fiery eyes, the oppressive heat of their intimate conversation looping around her like a boa constrictor.

As usual, Carlisle took pity on her mild embarrassment, and continued as if the awkward exchange had never taken place. Taking her suggestion into consideration, he approached the wall opposite the bed.

"I thought about putting it above the fireplace," he added, holding it above the mantle for her to see. His voice was almost inaudible and this made what he said seem all the more forbidden.

His lips parted expectantly, and all she wanted to do was be one with him already.

"Do you approve?" he asked, hope shining in his golden eyes.

"I do."

A broad grin spread over his face, and with her blessing, he pulled the silver nail out of his pocket. Stretching his arm as far as he could reach, he forced the nail deep into the wall with his knuckle, then lifted the canvas up to hang it above the mantle.

He devoted another minute to making sure it was centered perfectly before he stepped back to where she was standing to see how it looked.

"I know it still doesn't have a frame," he began sheepishly.

"I think it looks brilliant without the frame," Esme uttered, a bit more passionately than she had intended. She stretched her fingers out to trace the perimeter of the painting in mid-air from where she stood at a distance. "Less is more, wouldn't you say?"

He said nothing in response, instead focusing briefly on the painting with squinted eyes and a gentle smile. When he turned to her, his face was glowing with love, his eyes glistening with pleasure.

"What?" she whispered, her lips curving into an uncertain smile.

"Can you see it from the bed?" he asked. In only the thin sliver of early sun that speared between the window curtains, he looked dangerously sensual, intense and quiet.

She hid her shiver by moving immediately toward the bed behind them. Carlisle followed her soft footsteps, parting the canopy drapes with long arms to make space for her to sit on the edge of the mattress. Even though she had sat upon that bed many times before, the sheer softness of it alarmed her, given the context. Daintily, she scooted back on the covers and slowly reclined onto her elbows to test the distance.

Carlisle's painting still stole the room, hanging proudly above the fireplace just across from the bed. Framed by both sides of the canopy, it couldn't have been more perfectly placed. It was like her own special window to the lake outside, offering a much prettier view than the real windows ever could.

"Yes, I can see it."

She looked up at him where he stood by the end of the bed, watching her with dark eyes as she wriggled back out from the shadows.

"Then I think we've found the perfect place for it."

**-}0{-**

Edward came home later than usual from the academy that day. Esme waited for him eagerly, anticipating that he would have many stories to share about his last day of class. He promised he had a surprise for her when he stepped onto the front porch, but it turned out he had something entirely different in mind than what she'd expected.

"Edward, where were you all day?" Carlisle asked cheerfully as he came into the foyer to greet his son.

"I'm sorry I'm late, but I had to make a few stops in town this evening before I came home." As Edward said this, the large brown parcel he held under his arm suddenly demanded Carlisle's suspicious attention.

"What's in the box?" Esme asked first.

Edward smirked and held it higher so she couldn't reach. "You'll just have to wait and see." Looking very pleased with himself, he motioned for them to follow him.

Esme exchanged a confused look with Carlisle before they all migrated into the sitting room down the hall. Edward had already turned on all the lamps and placed the mysterious brown box in the center of the coffee table.

"What is all this about, Edward?" Esme demanded, excitement showing in her eyes. "Something to do with your last day of class? The start of summer...?"

He shook his head at both of her guesses. "Neither." Grinning like a little boy, he pulled another flat, square-shaped, brown paper package out from underneath the couch. "I wanted to surprise you both with wedding gifts tonight."

Esme was speechless with joy. She looked immediately to Carlisle, who spoke for her. "Son, you didn't have to—"

"Oh, but I wanted to," he said brightly, grasping Esme by the shoulders to coax her into sitting on the loveseat. "Besides, it was no trouble. Come and open them!" He motioned for Carlisle to sit beside Esme, then stepped over the coffee table to watch them from the other couch. "This one is for Carlisle," he pointed to the parcel he'd brought in earlier, "and this one is for you, Esme," he added as he tapped the edge of the long, flat package he had hidden under the couch.

"Ladies first," Carlisle murmured, shifting the larger of the two parcels into Esme's lap.

Feeling warm from having all eyes on her, Esme hastily shredded both layers of brown paper wrappings to unveil what looked like the back of a poorly prepared canvas. Though the back was a mess of crisscrossed wooden bars and splattered white preparation paint, the front was utterly stunning when she turned it around.

Painted on the flat side of the canvas, in bold, shimmering oil colors, was a painstakingly detailed tree, with wide branches and vivid green leaves.

"I figured since Carlisle had already painted you a lake, I may as well paint you a tree."

Esme responded with something between a sob, a gasp, and a laugh. "Oh, Edward, I don't know what to say." She ran her fingers affectionately over the textured surface of the painting. "It's perfect, darling."

He smiled proudly. "Out of all the things I could have painted, I thought this had the most meaning. In some ironic way, it was a tree that brought you to us in the first place." His expression softened as he glanced at Carlisle from the corner of his eye. "If you hadn't climbed a tree that summer ten years ago, Carlisle would never have met you."

Esme felt teary as she considered once again how true this was. She drew a shuddering breath as she felt Carlisle's warm arm drape over her shoulders and pull her closer. Out of habit, she fingered the corner of her eye, as if she needed to collect tears.

"This is wonderful, Edward," said Carlisle.

"I see you even added 'arbitrary colors,'" Esme teased, pointing out the obvious strokes of orange and violet peppered throughout the green.

"You taught me well," Edward said simply. "And I've learned a lot from your love of nature, how you're able to find the beauty in everything."

At Edward's words, Esme felt Carlisle's fingers start to caress little circles into her arm as he held her. She smiled widely as she hugged the painting to her chest. "I'm going to hang it in the library upstairs, right beside my easel so I can have inspiration when I paint."

"I could have told you that," Edward said with a sly smile.

"Stop reading my mind," Esme laughed as she propped the painting on the cushion beside her. "I'm so happy to have this, Edward. It truly is one of the nicest gifts I've received." She quickly got up to tackle him with a tight embrace. "Thank you."

Usually stiff-armed when it came to hugs, Edward surprised her by warmly embracing her back. "You're welcome, Esme."

In the small space of her peripheral, Esme could see Carlisle's raised arm fold back against his side. In a moment of irrational guilt, she felt bad for abandoning him on the other couch. She clutched Edward's shoulders to end the hug and swiftly made her way back to Carlisle's side.

She could have sworn she heard Edward try to hide a chuckle as he told Carlisle to open his gift now.

Esme sat up eagerly as Carlisle took the parcel from the coffee table, almost more excited to see what his gift was than she had been to see her own. Unlike Esme, Carlisle picked at the sealed corners of the parcel with careful fingers, prolonging the time it took to see what was inside. She watched him intently as he whittled away at the package, his smile growing as he got closer to unsealing the lid.

His patience paid off. Before long the lid was loose, and he was reaching deep inside the box. His eyes widened slightly in surprise as his hand came into contact with the contents, and he slowly revealed his gift. A glossy red wood violin.

"Son..." Carlisle's lips opened in wonder as he ran appreciative fingers across the graceful lines of the instrument.

A mildly embarrassed grin crossed Edward's face. "You always used to talk about learning to play the violin someday."

Carlisle smiled back in childlike fascination as he withdrew the slender bow and a thin paper booklet that looked homemade. "You even made sheet music?"

Edward's eyes glistened mischievously. "Last week in music class I sat behind a boy who was playing this really amazing song on his violin, so I took a peek at his sheet music and I handwrote some copies from memory for you to keep."

Carlisle's fingers trembled eagerly as he flipped through the pages of music, sight-reading how the song would sound in his head. "Oh, Edward, this is...brilliant."

If she had been standing, Carlisle's glowing smile would have made Esme weak in the knees.

Edward looked more like the loving father in that moment as he watched Carlisle fumble to place the instrument properly on his shoulder. "I thought you'd like it."

"You could not have chosen better gifts, Edward," Esme praised, equally endeared by Carlisle's boyish excitement.

Edward stood up proudly from his spot on the couch, grinning as he walked around them toward the door. "You're on your own with this one, Doctor Cullen. I've taught you everything I know about music. Let's see what you can do with it."

* * *

**You can read Carlisle's POV in Behind Stained Glass, Chapter 39: Skipping Milestones.**


	61. Never Close Enough

**Chapter 61:**

**Never Close Enough**

* * *

No one could have guessed that Carlisle hadn't had any training when it came to playing the violin. He had picked up the instrument the night he had received it, and by the next morning he had already taught himself an entire song and was able to play it flawlessly all the way through.

Esme watched him from the corner of the music room as he played, wondering how he could struggle so much with a simple song on the piano, yet look so effortless while learning to play an instrument he'd never touched before. She supposed the heart chose the instrument for the person. True talent was inbred, not learned, when it came to music.

It only took those few seconds of him rosining the bow, rolling up his sleeve, and positioning the violin on his shoulder for her to lose all interest in anything else but _him. _

She was convinced that even a perfect stranger would have been able to tell just from watching him play the instrument that Carlisle was a provocatively private man, yet also intensely passionate. He entered an alternate dimension when he picked up that violin, instantly consumed by the music and drowning in an ocean of deep thoughts and feelings.

His long, pale fingers worked intently, and the sounds he made were as warm and as smooth as honey. He made every note shiver as he coaxed it from the strings, and he made Esme's heart shiver just as easily. The music he created was piercing and emotional, melancholy yet sweet – swelling and rising, then flowing and soothing. Watching Carlisle play made Esme feel very voyeuristic. Though he was quite aware of her presence, she felt as though she were intruding on something frustratingly private.

He was an enchanting sight for a woman's eyes, all tall and noble as he stood upright beneath pouring waves of sunlight from the window. His face was peaceful one moment, then tortured the next, the silk of his eyelashes resting on his cheek, his strong jaw nestled on the firm edge of the wood. Locks of sandy hair fell into his forehead as he moved his head with every stroke, soft sways peppered every so often with a vigorous twitch of his neck, his lips pinched as though kissing an invisible woman whose head rested on his shoulder.

The sight was peculiar and gorgeous.

Nuances of gold and yellow highlights danced on his white shirt as he shifted repeatedly, his arm thrusting forward and gliding back as he dragged the bow across the strings. Every measured caress brought forth a new, glorious sound to echo in the room. He would play by the book, following the notes, stanza for stanza like a determined student. Then he would begin to experiment with his playing; the notes he struck were teasing and light, and a clever smile crept onto his raw pink lips. He lost himself in the pattern, his tireless right arm moving back and forth, back and forth...

But it was not even his leading arm that affected her the most. It was the hand he kept perched on the end of the violin – his left hand – the supposedly lesser talented of the two hands God had given him. There his fingers gripped the strings tightly in different places, rubbing furiously to create new chords from pure friction. It was that curious, repetitive, shuddering motion of those two or three fingers on his left hand that made her clutch her knees in agony. The way he did it – so fervidly, almost frantically – was too erotic for her to take.

She was floored by the humbling expression on his handsome face, the sleek reddish gleam of the polished wood reflecting in his eyes as he looked briefly into the light of the window. She was transfixed by the way he breathed roughly in time with the shivering strings, and the frenzied quiver of his left hand's fingers made her want to weep.

She wondered if Carlisle felt this way when he watched her play the harp.

One day she wanted to watch him play Christmas carols in this very same room, while snow fell outside the frosty windows and a fire roared on the hearth. She wanted to be able to hear him playing inside during the springtime while she tended to the garden and climbed trees. She wanted to lie in bed at night and watch him play his violin on the balcony under the moonlight.

Every time Carlisle paused in the middle of a song to glance up at her, she was reminded of how deep and dangerous his love for her was. She wanted to be the instrument that rested on his arm. She wanted his agile fingers to coax sweet melodies from her lips and create furious friction on the strings of her heart.

Somehow as she watched him, she thought that Carlisle was already imagining her as his most treasured instrument.

And she kept thinking over and over how brilliant Edward was for giving Carlisle a violin as a wedding gift.

Long after the break of dawn, Carlisle finally finished his one man symphony, but he did it without marking the significance in any way. Esme watched as he set down his violin gently into its case, handling it like a father might handle an exhausted little baby after a night of endless playing.

His eyes flicked over to the woman in the corner of the room, and an instant smile bloomed on his lips, like a reflex. "I'm surprised I haven't put you to sleep."

Dreamily, Esme shook her head. "I adored every moment of listening to you play. It was truly a breathtaking performance."

He looked embarrassed as he rubbed the shoulder that had been supporting the violin's weight all night long. "It was far from perfect."

"To me, it _was _perfect."

He met her eyes again, his gaze full of relief and adoration. "I'm honored you think so." They shared a brief but surprisingly intimate smile.

As he again became lost in his own world, fixing things around and organizing his sheet music, Esme thought about all the women in town who would soon find out about Doctor Cullen's plans for marriage. It pleased her that she was the one putting an end to those women's dreams. There would likely be no more incidents with powdered sugar at the hospital once word got out that Carlisle was no longer a bachelor. He was all hers.

She could not help but giggle with pleasure for her unbelievable victory. When Carlisle suddenly looked up at her, Esme realized she had giggled out loud.

"What did I do?" he asked with a careful half-smile. He briefly glanced over the table of objects in front of him and quickly patted his shirt down, looking for anything that might be the cause of her amusement.

"Nothing. I was just thinking of something," she confessed. She casually crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair.

"Hm. Tell me?"

Esme pushed her lips to one side and considered it. There was no way to judge how Carlisle would react to her knowledge of his little secret. But she could always blame the source who'd spilled it...

"Well," she began slowly, "I was just thinking about what the nurses at St. Thomas More Hospital might do when they happen to see a golden ring on Doctor Cullen's finger." For effect, she twisted her fingers around her own engagement ring and smiled cryptically at him.

Looking bemused, Carlisle stared down at his still-naked wedding finger and gently touched his knuckle. "They...probably won't notice."

"Oh, believe me, Carlisle, they will," Esme said, her voice trembling with light laughter.

He looked at her with the most curious expression, and she couldn't resist any longer.

"I know about the powdered sugar."

His eyes widened at her blunt little outburst, and she quickly covered her giggling mouth.

"Edward told you about that?" Carlisle asked in disbelief.

She nodded and suppressed another round of giggles with the back of her hand.

Carlisle appeared both panicked and slightly amused as he struggled to better explain the situation. It was clear he feared that Edward had dramatized it.

"It's only the younger, immature ones who do it. And it's not as if they do it every day," he defended as he brushed away nonexistent streaks of powdered sugar from his bare arms. "They only do it once in a while. It's sort of a game to them, I suppose. I just pretend not to notice."

Shaking her head, Esme rose from her chair and walked over to her bashful fiancé. "It's alright, Carlisle. At first it made me angry when Edward told me, but now I just find it all very silly."

Carlisle looked up dubiously as she straightened his sleeves, and they both exchanged a smile before easing into relaxed laughter. With her hands perched on his shaking arms, Esme felt another flash of that warm, intimate feeling. It seemed to come with every seemingly insignificant moment – when they shared a smile, or both laughed at the same thing, or glanced at each other suddenly without warning. Sometimes it was a quick flutter of warmth, and sometimes it was an overwhelming heat that enveloped her whole body. She didn't know how much longer it would be before her burns became visible to Carlisle's eyes.

Her heart started fidgeting once their laughter subsided. In the quiet room, she distracted herself with smoothing out his shirt. "You've had quite a busy night, my dear," she murmured as she unrolled the cuffs of his sleeves and pulled them back down to his wrists. "No one would ever guess that you had never touched a violin before in your life. Listening to you play is heavenly."

She reached up to touch his face and thought she could feel a faint fire in his cheek. His eyes sparkled as he looked away from her and glanced at the clock. "I've been so distracted that I've lost track of time. I should be leaving for the hospital soon."

Esme tried not to show her disappointment as she folded and refolded the flaps of his collar. In her head she quickly devised a way to keep him around a little bit longer. "You can't wear this shirt to work, Carlisle. Look at how wrinkled it is now."

He tucked his chin back to look down as Esme pointed out the countless creases that had formed from his vigorous violin playing the night before. "I could wear a vest over it," he reasoned.

"But the sleeves are wrinkled too, see?" She swept her fingers up the inside of his forearm and teasingly tugged the crinkled fabric gathered on his elbow. "That's what happens when you roll them up," she admonished him with a secret smile.

She heard him take a quick breath as he twisted his arm around to examine the problem with his own eyes. "It looks fine to me."

She ignored his observation and patted his chest before darting toward the door. "I'll find you a new shirt from the laundry." She was gone before he could argue.

Smiling gleefully to herself, Esme searched through the stacks of clean folded shirts she had left on the kitchen counter. She quickly selected a pale green button-down and rushed back to the music room, high on the delightful domesticity of helping a man get dressed in the morning.

"Here, I've found one for you," she said as she triumphantly opened the sleeves and let the shirt fall in front of her like a curtain. A curious fuzzy feeling came over her as she noticed how large it was, breadth-wise, compared to her.

She watched both of Carlisle's hands peek over the top of the shirt as she held it, and she slowly let it go. She expected his expression to be one of confusion, or even slight irritation, but instead he looked completely at ease. His eyes had a warm look to them as he accepted his new shirt without complaint and began to pluck its buttons open one by one.

A flutter of panic arose in Esme. She didn't know whether or not Carlisle would feel comfortable changing in front of her, and she certainly didn't know if it was appropriate to simply stand there and watch him or offer to help in some way. Hoping to eliminate what might soon become an awkward situation, she quickly came up with an excuse to leave the room and give him just enough time to switch shirts before she returned.

"Why don't you just change into that shirt while I go find you a vest to match it?" she offered hastily as she backed toward the door. Then she stopped short when she realized she didn't exactly know where Carlisle kept his vests when they weren't in for laundry. "Where do you keep your clothes?"

Her question hung in the air like an out-of-tune chord on the violin. Esme suddenly felt ashamed that she had to ask such a question when she was literally days away from marrying this man. It brought to light the number of simple things they still had yet to reveal to each other.

To her surprise, Carlisle gave her a knowing grin. "In the same room where you first discovered my _Lake Cordial by Moonlight._"

The memory resurfaced immediately in her mind. She recalled the tall mahogany armoire in the dark bedroom he'd used as his private painting studio months ago. She gave him a flighty smile in return before disappearing into the hall. Holding her head on straight with both hands, she hurried up two flights of stairs to the third floor and welcomed herself into the hidden bedroom at the end of the hall.

The same gloomy purple wallpaper and leftover fragrance of pungent oil paints greeted her as she made her way to the armoire beside the window. She braced herself before opening its doors. It was not as heavy or as spacious as the one in the master bedroom, but it had many more compartments inside. Esme cocked her head and stepped closer, tentatively peeking inside each one of the drawers to see which hid his vests.

The bottom drawer was full of pants and socks. All of them were neatly organized in the shallow space, and in true eccentric fashion, an old book titled _A Dictionary of Ancient and Modern Geography _was tucked in the corner of the drawer. One pair of pants even had an unlabeled bottle of pills still peeking out of the pocket.

She closed the first drawer and opened the second one. Sure enough, inside it was Carlisle's impressive collection of sweater vests. He had folded them in a curious overlapping pattern, almost as if he'd been trying to place in them in order of color, blending from the bluest to the greenest. But if Esme had done it herself, she wouldn't have chosen the order he had. With effort, she resisted the temptation to fix the order of colors to her liking, quickly picking out a vest that would best complement the shirt she had already chosen.

She took her time making sure all the drawers were shut tightly before she closed the armoire up. Wasting a bit of time was necessary to avoid walking in on him if he was still changing his shirt. She wasn't sure why the thought made her so nervous. After all, he was going to be her husband.

But he wasn't yet.

Taking a deep breath, Esme closed the door to the small bedroom behind her and made her way downstairs at a human's pace. She slowly approached the music room and peeked inside, relieved to find Carlisle fully dressed in his new shirt, having just finished buttoning up. Behind him, she could see where he'd draped his wrinkled white shirt over the music stand.

Wordlessly, Esme walked over to him and held the green vest experimentally up to his shirt to make sure they matched.

"Oh, good. I was hoping you would pick that one," he commented as he gently pried the vest from her hand. As he pulled it over his head, his hair was left in a disheveled mess. He didn't seem to notice as he busied himself with tucking his shirt in.

With a patient smile, Esme opened the desk drawer where Carlisle kept his comb. "Here. Hold still for a moment."

He blinked innocently and became still as a statue for her as she stood on tiptoe to reach his head. Starting on the sides, she neatly tucked his hair behind his ears, using care not to scrape them with the teeth of the comb. As she worked her way up, she flicked the comb through his thick golden locks to straighten them out, but they always seemed to fall in stubborn waves against the side of his forehead.

She continued running the comb lightly through his hair, but she was hopelessly distracted by his face in front of her, and the way his eyes pierced her, shining like a lambent flame. This time she knew the intimate moment was coming, and she was prepared for the familiar, soft cocoon of heat that wrapped around her. He breathed in a slow, sleepy way as she handled his hair, waiting patiently for her to finish up.

After a few more useless attempts to flatten his hair, she gave up and set the comb aside. Truth be told, his hair looked perfect the way it was. "Now you can go to work," she whispered before placing a chaste kiss on his cheek.

"Walk me to the door," he requested with a warm smile.

He didn't bother to check his appearance in the mirror on his way through the hall. Apparently he trusted her work with a comb.

She fetched his lab coat from the foyer closet and held it out for him to put his arms through.

"When I come back later we'll go into town to have your gown fitted," he said excitedly.

Esme's heart flipped. "Are you sure we should go today?"

"If we wait any longer it won't be done in time," he reminded her. The wedding was just around the corner.

Esme clutched her stomach at the thought of how close the wedding was, and how intensely she wished she did not have to visit two humans tonight in order to have her dress done in time for the ceremony.

Carlisle noticed her worried expression and soothed her with a sweet kiss goodbye. "Everything will be fine."

**-}0{-**

Much to Esme's relief, Edward took her to feed before Carlisle came home that evening. She fed until she was so full she didn't even want to look at another animal. Edward was sure she would be fine when she got to town.

Later that day Carlisle came home with his arms full of flowers.

"What are all these for?" Esme asked as she held the door open.

"For those empty vases in the bedroom," he said breathlessly. "We can fill them all with these bouquets." As he set the bundle of colorful flowers on the sideboard, he swooped down to catch her lips in a sudden kiss.

"Empty vases?" Esme parroted.

"Yes. Five of them. On the fireplace mantle. Didn't you notice?" He touched her nose in a teasing way.

Now that he'd pointed them out, she did recall several antique porcelain vases on the fireplace in her bedroom. The fact that they were empty had never bothered her before, but if Carlisle wanted to fill them with flowers, that was fine with her.

"I did notice the vases," she said in defense. "I just never thought to put flowers in them."

He laughed and kissed her again, more slowly this time, stealing her breath as his fingers tangled in her long, auburn hair. "I missed you today," he whispered, pulling away just enough to speak the words before brushing his lips over the tip of her nose.

"I missed you too," she whispered as she embraced him. "I kept thinking about tonight."

Carlisle's eyes lit up. "You're already dressed. We can go right now."

"Now?" She glanced nervously at the door.

"I arranged everything this morning. They know to expect us at the dress shop at seven o'clock. No one else will be there because they're closed after six."

Esme felt a bit guilty that Carlisle was doing everything in his power to make things easier for her, including getting permission from the shop to come in after closing. She was still worried deep down that she might not be able to go through with it. It would be the longest amount of time she had ever spent in the presence of humans, and she would not have an emergency escape if things got out of hand.

With one last reassurance, Carlisle managed to get her into the car along with Edward.

The drive to town went by too quickly.

Esme braced herself as she climbed out of the car, trying not to breathe as deeply as she wanted to. The scent of human blood was more familiar now, but no less intimidating. They walked briskly across several blocks until they reached the dress shop, and Carlisle held her hand the entire way.

The shop itself was much more decorative than the others on its street. A wide front window showcased three mannequins with brightly colored gowns for special occasions. Each one looked like it would have been worth over a thousand dollars. Above the window was a grand gilded sign that read "SAUVAGEON SISTERS SEAMSTRESSES."

When they stopped in front of the door, Edward turned to Esme with a panicked look. "Be warned. There's a reason their last name actually means 'savage'..."

Carlisle rolled his eyes. "Hush, Edward."

Esme looked between them for a straight answer. "Are they really all that bad?"

Carlisle smiled. "Of course not. They're really very kind and sincere young ladies. A bit eccentric, I suppose, but absolutely not _savage._"

"Eccentric, I can handle," Esme assured.

"Obviously," Carlisle whispered before leaning down to give her a soft kiss. His lips lingered on hers, leaving a warm bruise in their wake. She still longed for more when he gently pulled away. Suddenly she dreaded going into the shop.

The scent of human blood clouded around her, but she tamped down the temptation easily. She was so full already, and though the scent of blood was appealing, it was not the most irresistible she had smelled. Still, it made her pause.

"Will you stay here in case I need to leave?" she whispered nervously, fingering the cross on Carlisle's neck.

"I'll be here the whole time," he promised before kissing her forehead. "But you won't need to leave, Esme. You have everything it takes to resist." He kissed her on each cheek. "I have confidence in you." Across his hard cheeks traveled the soft rumple of a true smile. Comforted by his assurances, she straightened up and let him escort her into the shop.

Behind the glass doors was a small greeting room filled with empty chairs along the walls, which were adorned in pale pink Victorian wallpaper. Facing the entry was a long desk with two vases of pink roses on either side and a lamp in the center. Behind the desk was a closed door, beyond which Esme guessed the sisters were whispering suspiciously to one another about whether their expected guests had arrived.

Carlisle cleared his throat for show, and the two sisters promptly ceased their conversation and made their grand entrance.

"Doctor Cullen!" A duo of flighty female voices blasted out from the open door.

Both of them shared the same broad, procumbent nose, curly brown hair, and pale blue eyes, but one was taller and more lanky, while the other was shorter and rounder in figure.

"Good evening, ladies," Carlisle greeted.

"It's a pleasure to see you again," the shorter of the two sisters gushed. "Twice in one day!"

"Yes, yes..." Carlisle looked amused, but Edward looked irritated.

"And young Edward, too!" the short sister exclaimed. "How delightful!"

Edward said nothing in response, simply raised his chin and gave a forced grin as a form of hello.

Suddenly the taller sister was distracted by something outside the shop window. "Is that _your _machine out there, Doctor Cullen? Spunky sheepdogs! Is it ever so fine!"

Edward chuckled at her strange choice of exclamation while Carlisle turned to look out self-consciously at his automobile on the side of the road. While it was not ostentatious, it was considerably more luxurious than most of the vehicles seen in such a small town. He ran a hand through his blond hair and attempted to change the subject. "Please, ladies, call me Carlisle."

The shorter of the two sisters giggled maniacally for a good ten seconds while the other covered her mouth with her hand and shook silently, staring the doctor up and down with mischievous eyes. The loud sister finished her awkward outburst with a long, theatrical sigh, and continued the conversation as if he hadn't said anything at all. "So, Doctor Cullen, how was your drive?"

"Fine, thank you," Carlisle muttered, looking slightly confused as he swatted away some of the flowery decorations that hung low from the ceiling. "And I must thank you both again for agreeing to see us after store hours. I do work late shifts from time to time, and your accommodations are most appreciated."

"Oh, it's no trouble at all, Doctor! We're _delighted _to service you in any way we can."

From the corner of the room, Edward snorted. Loudly.

Carlisle looked mortified.

Esme endured an awkward moment that she was sure lasted much longer for the vampires than for the two human women in the room. Reminding herself of that fact was the only thing that kept her from running for the door.

Recovering smoothly from his state of shock, Carlisle stepped forward to make introductions. "In that case, I'd like to introduce my fiancée, Esme."

He linked his hand with hers and helped her step forward. Esme could clearly see a spark of envy in the sisters' eyes as she was brought into the brighter light.

Carlisle gestured first to the taller sister, then to the shorter. "Esme, meet Miss Cecile and Miss Paulette."

"How do you do?" Esme asked shyly. The warm perfume of the women's blood took her by surprise, but she held her breath to control herself.

"My...isn't she a pretty one?" The tall and willowy Miss Cecile commented in a strained voice.

Pudgy Miss Paulette flipped her brown ringlets over one shoulder. "It won't take much work from us to make _her_ look like an angel on your wedding day, Doctor."

Esme glanced up at Carlisle, who shared a secret smile with her. The silent exchange made Esme feel infinitely more comfortable, and she let herself take in a cautious breath. The air was sweet, but not unbearable.

"Nevertheless, I'm happy to leave a handsome sum for your efforts," Carlisle said politely.

"Handsome indeed," one of the sisters muttered with a giggle.

Edward groaned and shoved Carlisle's arm, causing Esme's hand to fall out of his. "Well then, we'll just let you two work your 'magic.'"

"Come along, dear," Miss Cecile said as she began ushering Esme into the back room. "Just through this back door and we'll get you fitted." Esme looked to Carlisle questioningly. He gave her one last smile and a nod of reassurance before she disappeared behind the door.

"An angel she will be, Doctor Cullen, you can bet your life on it!" Miss Paulette said excitedly before the door could close. Her chubby hand reached out to take Esme's, and she flinched a little when she touched her skin. "Ooh, a _snow _angel is more like it."

Curious about her sister's remark, Cecile reached over to feel Esme's skin too. The young lady shivered and shared another giggle with her sister.

With the doors to the back room tightly shut, Esme began to feel her nerves again. Having Carlisle out of sight while in a strange place was not something she was used to, especially when she was locked in a small room with two humans who smelled far better than the meal she'd had earlier that day.

Feeling awkward, she stood there in the center of the heavily decorated fitting room, confused as to what she was supposed to do. She watched as the sisters smiled mischievously at each other, and then Cecile grabbed a long chord of white measuring tape. "Esme, dear, I do so hate to ask you to undress when you're already so cold, but we do need you in your undergarments to take a proper measurement."

Esme stared dumbly at the tall woman for a moment before processing her words. "Oh. Right."

Without even the grace to look the other way, the two women continued gawking at her while she undressed uncomfortably. Standing in the center of the room with all eyes on her, Esme couldn't help but feel a little like some exotic animal in a cage at a traveling zoo. The whole process felt cold and even slightly traumatic, and as a result she'd forgotten almost entirely about her threatening thirst. Esme began to worry that if she had this much trouble undressing in front of two women who took intimate measurements for a living, how could she expect to strip down to nothing in front of Carlisle on her wedding night?

She gulped and squeezed her eyes shut as she undid the last button on her dress and let it fall to the ground. Exposed to the cool air in nothing but her slip, Esme attempted to cover herself as naturally as possible by crossing her arms in convenient positions across her chest.

"Not a single crooked bone or lump of fat on her body, and she still cowers from us!" The sisters began to laugh together at Esme's shyness, but to her surprise, their laughter was not demeaning. In fact, it sounded fond and friendly.

Esme managed a smile and stood up straighter, running both hands down the front of her slip. "I'm sorry. I'm just very shy, that's all."

Both sisters exchanged a knowing glance.

"That'll change soon enough." Something in the way Paulette said this terrified Esme.

"Now take a deep breath in and let it _all _out," Cecile interrupted, with a peculiar, prolonged emphasis on the word "all." Esme was reminded of the way Carlisle had told her to breathe when he listened to her heartbeat through his stethoscope, back when she was his human patient. The memory of their first meeting put her at ease, that is, until Cecile's hands started feeling around for her hipbones. "Very good. Now just hold nice and still for me while I measure your hips."

The process tickled a great deal, and Esme struggled to keep a straight face. Her nerves made her urge to giggle even worse. Cecile carried around a small notepad and pencil with her, in which she charted various numbers to keep in mind for later. She measured Esme's waist next, and finally her bust. Esme started to get antsy when the tape was wrapped around her breasts. The same bitter glint of envy shone in Cecile's eyes as she read the number of the final bust measurement. Practically bouncing with curiosity, Paulette bobbed up behind her sister to peek at the numbers.

"35-23-35," she announced, grabbing the tape and slapping it victoriously against her sister's behind. "A perfect little hourglass!"

Esme was not familiar with the term, but she felt value in the compliment regardless of what she guessed it meant. Cecile pursed her lips and continued drawing up some measurements in her little notepad while Paulette busied herself with some large rolls of fabric in the other corner of the room.

Esme shifted from foot to foot as she stood obediently in the center of the room, wondering if it would be appropriate to ask if she could put her dress back on yet. Every so often Cecile would glance up from her furious scribbling to cast Esme a suspicious glance.

"I must say, you and Doctor Cullen do make a fine couple," she finally said out loud. It sounded genuine enough, but there was something naturally reluctant in Cecile's eyes as she said it.

Esme offered a timid "thank you," but she didn't dare make direct eye contact with Cecile.

"And you're so modest!" Paulette chimed in cheerily. "Just like _him_," she swooned.

"Yes, yes," Cecile said patronizingly, pushing her pencil more forcefully into the paper. "She snagged a good one, didn't she?"

"I beg your pardon?" Esme asked, laughing slightly in confusion.

"Why, Esme, dear, you're the luckiest duck in the pond!" Paulette chirped, hoisting a roll of white satin over her shoulder. "Doctor Cullen is the cream of the crop when it comes to men. But I'm sure we don't have to tell you that. You won't get any better than him," she said with a wink.

"Not in a million years," Cecile muttered behind her notepad.

"And you know what they say about doctors and their 'bedside' manner..." Paulette added, a suggestive gleam in her round blue eyes.

Cecile let out a prompt shriek and slapped her sister's backside with her notepad. Esme noticed that they both seemed very fond of slapping each other in the behind whenever they got the chance. They ran a tiny circle around Esme, giggling all the way until they came back to their original spots. Their impromptu run made their blood race and their faces blush, and Esme's venom responded enthusiastically.

But her embarrassment far outweighed her thirst in that particular moment. Esme burned in humiliation, knowing Carlisle could hear every word being said just beyond those closed doors. The sisters had no idea that both the doctor himself and his cynical son were listening in on their very private, very inappropriate conversation.

Paulette cleared her throat multiple times in attempt to calm herself from laughter. Fanning herself with her hand, she came up behind Esme and draped a heavy sheet of pure white silky material over her shoulders. "Shame on us, we've work to do here," she murmured to herself as she studied the fabric against Esme's skin tone. "Oh, this one's a lovely color on you. That's one hundred percent Chinese silk! White as the North Star!"

"No, no, I think she'd be better off with a creamier white, don't you?" Cecile interrupted, slipping a long piece of lace over Esme's left shoulder. "Lace is very _in _right now. And everyone loves a good French vanilla! Oui?"

"Goodness no, Cecile! She'll look like a ghost in that!"

"Nonsense! She can't look any paler than she already is!"

"Oh, shush! We should let her pick!" Paulette's face went from raging to sweet with just a turn of her head. "Which do you like, Esme?"

"I really love each of them in their own way... Why can't we use both of them?"

"Oh, how delightful! A compromise! That's the spirit!"

"Esme, you're a gem."

"And she'll do much more than sparkle on that altar, won't she?" Paulette sighed dramatically, her eyes far away. "Doctor Cullen will be the one to swoon once we're through with you!"

The thought of Carlisle fainting made Esme laugh hard. And from that point on, she couldn't seem to stop laughing for the rest of the night.

She could have blamed it on her nerves, but this time she suspected it was pure joy that caused it.

As it turned out, the Sauvageon sisters were certainly _not _savage.

**-}0{-**

Esme was quite proud of herself for surviving her adventures in the dress shop. Carlisle talked all night long about how well she had done and how convincing she had been as a human. The next morning, he left for work, and Edward invited Esme to play cards while Carlisle was gone. She consented happily to distract herself with a game, but after a while, her thirst started to get in the way of her ability to concentrate. She worried that it wasn't natural for her to be this thirsty after feeding herself so thoroughly the day before. But Edward mentioned that being in the presence of humans can drastically heighten the drive for blood, even if it's for a short while.

For the first time since they'd gotten engaged, Carlisle and Esme went hunting alone together.

In actuality, it was not a "first" like the other moments they'd shared recently. It was not like a first kiss or a first exchange of "I love you's." In fact they had hunted many times before without Edward to accompany them. This was why Esme found it odd that she was so nervous to be going alone into the woods with Carlisle now.

He had been wearing lighter colors lately – pale blues, whites, and beiges – but today he was dressed in all black, emphasizing the stark pallor of his smooth white skin where it showed on his neck and arms. He had taken off his shoes the instant he got home, slipped his white doctor's coat from his shoulders, and left his things on the bottom stair.

She saw the darkness brewing in his eyes as he caught her arm in an urgent grip and pulled her close. "Will you hunt with me?"

Naturally she couldn't refuse him. So she changed into a shorter skirt, more suitable for running, and tied her hair back to keep it from getting messy.

As they crossed swiftly through the forest together, Esme asked him what had brought about this urgent need to hunt tonight.

"We should both be as prepared as we can be for what lies ahead."

In his cryptic words, Esme heard quite clearly what he was really implying.

_We should both drink as much as we can now so that we can stand comfortably beside a human priest for at least an hour on our wedding day._

She didn't ask him any more questions. She just watched him from the corner of her eye while they ran side by side. The strange bond they had forged between them was stronger out here than anywhere else. She could feel it so potently, tugging at her like an iron chain that linked his body to hers.

When he jerked into another direction, she was forced to follow him. And when he stopped, she was pulled to a stop as well. His sharp golden eyes combed their surroundings, and his nostrils flared in search of scents. Esme gasped when she caught the sweet note of animal blood in the area, her keen newborn senses still one step ahead of Carlisle's.

She tugged on his shirt, leading him in the right direction, bent low to keep from hitting the branches of trees in her way. His voice was swaying and soft as he whispered hoarsely in the shadows, "I'm so thirsty." He gripped her gently, his fingers pressing into her arm with a sting of urgency, and Esme felt something collapse inside of her at his words. She had never heard him confess his need for something so primal before. In response, she started running faster toward their target.

From the moment they started running to the moment they pounced on their prey, it was all instinct and rough breathing and indefinable balance.

There was a stern chill to the air, but a flush of heat on the surface of her skin, like a teasing fever. This time there were no questions asked; they shared their kill, and Esme sucked her half of the animal dry without wasting a drop. She had never seen Carlisle drink so desperately before. Having been kissed by him in more than just a few places on her body, she knew well just how gentle his tongue was. But as she watched him now, she was learning just how aggressive it could be, too.

He fed greedily for several luxurious minutes, prolonging the experience where she had gone through it as hastily as possible. She remained completely still as she let him finish, awestruck at how beautiful he looked when he used his knuckle to swipe a tiny drop of blood away from his lip. He glanced up and gave her a weary-eyed smile before bowing his neck to drink more.

His hunting patterns had changed, she thought, and now she was sure it wasn't only in her mind. He was less methodical than he had been when they'd first met. Less methodical, more sensual. He gripped the animal like a lover as he drank from its neck, and his blond hair fell into his eyes. He was a vision.

Esme kept her distance when Carlisle fed, as fierce as her need was to stay close to him. She felt that he needed space... or maybe she was the one who needed space. All the while she watched him intensely, inspecting his long, lean legs on the ground, the curve of his back as it narrowed into his hips. Her eyes followed the absent motions of his fingers as he tugged on the animal's hide, her thighs clenching beneath her skirt. Unable to resist the temptation to touch him, she moved the slightest bit closer and reached out to put her hand in his hair. As her fingers luxuriated in the silky blond strands, he shifted and made a small moaning sound, as if it had disturbed him.

Instead of yanking her hand away, she let it slide slowly down his neck and away from his body. He let out a deep, shuddering breath and dropped the animal carcass to the ground, staring calmly at his bloody hands. Esme's instincts fluttered at the gleaming red sight. Without a single thought of restraint, she crawled up next to Carlisle, grasped his blood coated hand, and ran her tongue from the base of his wrist to the tip of his middle finger.

The sweet taste of the blood burned her tongue in a most pleasant way. Carlisle gasped, and his hand became tense in her grip. Esme looked up at him, and found him staring back at her with an intensity that she couldn't place. There was obvious wonder in his eyes as they seemed to open slightly wider, trying to see through the dark spaces inside of her. His eyes were piercing and deep, yet vulnerable and questioning.

"You're still thirsty," he stated, his voice low as if it were a shameful secret.

In response, Esme's lips closed tightly around the tip of Carlisle's finger. His eyes nearly closed, but quickly snapped open again as he tried to concentrate. He looked downright frightened as she daintily sucked the rest of the blood off his finger. His lips were trembling and his eyes were wide with shock.

But at the moment she released him, his gaze lowered almost dreamily to his clean finger, hints of clandestine excitement written across his face.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, aware that her raspy tone betrayed her brief dishonesty.

"I want you to drink some more," he said, deep and authoritative. She bit down on her lip and nodded slowly, not fully processing what he was saying.

Before he could get up to find a second course, Esme clutched both his knees and pinned him to the ground. Her mouth pressed hungrily to his, and his defenses crumbled instantly. After witnessing her sexually charged finger kiss, Carlisle was in no position to resist her advances. This filled Esme with forbidden delight.

She tackled him as if _he _were the prey that would quench her thirst. In so many ways, he was just that. She devoured him with hot, wet, greedy kisses, and he took it all without a fight. He was under her power, vulnerable to her desires, pressed hard into the dirt ground beneath her weight.

His breathing accelerated along with hers, groaning helplessly as her hands fisted in his golden hair. In her sudden fit of lust, she was working up the courage to slip her tongue between his lips. She had never dared to before, and though their kisses had been intense, they were not as deep as they could have been. Suddenly Esme wanted to reach into those unexplored depths of Carlisle's mouth. She wanted to force open his chaste lips and learn the taste of his tongue.

Between red-hot flashes of heated desire, she could hear a warning bell ringing in the back of her head. She did not want to ignore it, but at the moment she felt she had no choice, and it scared her. Carlisle writhed beneath her, whimpering for her to restrain herself... but she didn't think it was possible to stop.

She felt like a villain as she wrapped her arms fiercely around her defenseless fiancé, her thighs pulsing around his hips as she straddled him. It was all so uncharacteristic of her, she could only blame it on her animal instincts. And though he had enough control to suppress them both, Carlisle shared those instincts, and his were just as strong. Beneath the thick layer of his clothing, she could feel him, full and firm, burning in her lap as his hips pushed roughly up against hers from the ground.

The virile harshness of his reaction threw her off guard and sent her shattering back into reality. She gasped for breath as if emerging from a restless sea, stumbling as she tried to climb off of Carlisle. Her hands frantically pulled down on her skirt, straightened her blouse, and patted down her hair. But she couldn't pretend none of this had happened. She was the one who had started it.

Now Esme was seized by a consuming fear, a cruel frost eating away at the fire in her lap. It was so wrong, what she had been trying to do... But the realness of his reaction scared her even more. Carlisle looked twice as alarmed by her behavior as he lay stiffly on the ground across from her, afraid to move a muscle. The only movement came from his constant, heavy breathing. He looked as if he'd been paralyzed.

She felt ashamed, no better than a selfish siren who had just lured an innocent man into dangerous waters. Her shame intensified greatly when she saw his hand reach down to protectively clutch his belt, his eyes shining with humiliation. Slowly, he sat up straight, never breaking her painful gaze as he tried to catch his breath.

Her hands rose of their own accord, palms facing out as if to defend her own honor. "I...I didn't mean to—"

Carlisle's eyes flickered when he heard her shaking voice, his gaze sweeping over her body in a brief caress. It was too quick to be sure, but she could have sworn she had seen a flash of hunger in his eyes. Real, honest, _ravenous_ hunger.

Suddenly Esme did not feel as guilty for attacking him.

With one hand, he reached out for her – openly, forgivingly. His other hand was still trembling on his belt, his knuckles bound so tightly she could see the pain in them.

Feeling as if she could cry, Esme laid her hand in his open palm, closing her eyes in relief as she felt the warmth of his acceptance. By now their breathing had calmed, and the song of a thousand birds chirping once again dominated the forest.

"Carlisle, I swear I didn't—"

"Shh," he quickly hushed her, lacing his fingers with hers. "You're just very thirsty," he reminded her, his voice dark yet soothing.

A tingling of arousal awakened in her belly as her eyes rose to meet his. "I think it is much more than that..."

His expression was suddenly torn between terror and pleasure. "No...Esme, please," he murmured desperately, his fingers shaking between hers. "Oh, please..." He fixed his stare hard at the ground and tried to hide the fact that he was gritting his teeth. "You don't know how difficult this is for me."

Her hand tightened around his, steadying his trembling for a brief moment when their eyes met. "I think I know."

But apparently she was wrong.

"You do not know," Carlisle corrected her, his voice subdued, but shuddering with undercurrents of mysterious warmth. "And you must never know. A woman should not hear such things from the man who is about to become her husband."

His words caused her breath to catch in her throat, but there was no shame in his eyes. In fact, she would dare to call them bold. They ran deep, glinting like honey, tender in a way that was almost crude. In the dim blaze of twilight, his gaze and expression struck her as...menacing.

Against her better judgment, Esme leaned closer to the menacing, tender eyes of her dearest doctor and whispered heavily, "But one day she _will _hear those things." There was a hopefulness to her words, something she couldn't hide no matter how indecent it was to share out loud.

"She will," he confirmed, unbearably soft. "She _shouldn't,_ even then... But she will."

Everything about him in that moment was so much deeper and darker than she'd ever imagined he could be. As she knew him, Carlisle was all light and purity and control. But she could see now that on an intimate level, these facets of his personality were only the beautiful highlights to a stunning composition of the man he was inside.

Esme was frightened to death of this dark, tempting beauty she had only caught rare glimpses of until now. She was beginning to put the puzzle together, slowly starting to understand why he became a different man when he was carving, or writing, or painting, or playing the violin...or hunting.

"We can't speak like this," she hissed, tortured by the indecent thoughts that now swirled mercilessly in her head.

The insatiable hunger she had seen in his eyes returned, and a look like summer lightning flickered over his handsome face. "Every word I speak is a promise."

"I know," she whimpered in agony, struggling to untangle his determined fingers from hers. "That is exactly why you must...stop...speaking." She shut her eyes tightly and shook her head as she pronounced the words breathlessly. "I can't bear it anymore."

When she dared to look back up at him, she could detect flickers of sadness and pain in his fierce amber eyes. But that sadness was far outweighed by an intense love and devotion. "One more day," he declared in a low voice, his words swimming in erotic conviction. "That is my final promise."

He kissed her once on the forehead and finally let go of her hand.

**-}o{-**

On that one hunting trip, Esme fed more than she had during the entire first week following her transformation. Carlisle made sure she did not let her tongue rest until she was utterly satisfied with her fill. He did not stop until she literally had to beg him for no more blood.

Afterwards, he reminded her profusely how much he loved her, kissing her all over until she could not stand anymore. She collapsed in his arms and he carried her back to their house, laying her down on the armchair in his study.

He played his violin that evening, creating a song out of thin air and pure improvisation. The resulting melody made her think of two lovers rolling over top of each other in a furious tide, their limbs sticky with saltwater and sand as they struggled against the fighting current. With increasingly piercing sweetness the haunting strains of his song pushed through her, leaving her waiting breathlessly to hear the next measure, waiting to hear the whole story and how it would end. Carlisle's eyes remained closed while he played, and they did not open until he had finished the song with an abrupt suspension of two timid, lingering notes. The lovers had never reached their climax.

Esme sat on the edge of her armchair, breathing hard and clutching the cushions on either side of her as she watched him set his beloved instrument back in its case. His fingers passed fondly over the smooth polished wood before he covered it from sight.

After watching Carlisle's mysterious rendezvous with his violin, she had spent the rest of the evening with him in his study, the way they used to spend their nights when they had been but two lonely souls longing for companionship. Their conversation ranged everything from profoundly philosophical to flirtatiously senseless, the latter of which was her preference lately.

As the evening wore on, Esme could not keep the same thought from ringing through her mind. Tomorrow was her wedding day. Tomorrow she would be married. Tomorrow she would be the wife of Doctor Carlisle Cullen.

And she should have been slightly mortified that the full name of her fiancé still stirred a shameless heat beneath her cheeks. But she had a feeling that the novelty of such a miracle would never die down, no matter how long they were together.

But as the hours passed, her deeper thoughts demanded more of her, and she had trouble concentrating on what Carlisle had been trying to say to her. All of his words seemed to have double meanings, none of them the least bit appropriate for a still unmarried woman's ears. The worst part was that he did not seem to realize the innuendos in nearly every one of his sentences. For a man so virile and intelligent, he all but shimmered with innocence when he met her gaze. She could barely stand the way Carlisle made every breath sound like a plea, the wholesome earnestness of virginity glowing in his eyes. Beneath his calm facade, she could see his burning need to be touched, his quiet, growing hunger for intimacy.

After a while, soft rains began to fall on the roof, the sound like a mother hushing her children for bedtime. Carlisle turned to Esme, his eyes restless with everything she couldn't name, and whispered, "I think it best if we were separated for the remainder of the night."

It was a gentle suggestion, but she still took it with the vaguest offense. He then told her that it was for his own benefit, whatever that had meant.

His painting of the lake taunted her from its perfect spot above the fireplace when she sat down on the bed. It held a commanding presence over her, almost as if Carlisle were right there in the room.

Aching to be closer to him, Esme reached into her nightstand drawer for the romantic collection of letters he had written for her. Her heart thudded back to life as she savored their poetic beauty, line for line, word for word. She had never taken the time to read them all fully, concentrating on every detail of what he promised her, paragraph after paragraph.

She was touched by the words he had written, able to imagine the way he would say every sentence if he were speaking it out loud. Some things he would whisper, and other things he would say with a stronger voice. And then there were some things he would communicate with his eyes alone...because in some cases words would never be appropriate, even after they were married.

And as she read the finer details of Carlisle's tremendously intimate letters, she began to see those letters for what they really were. Very long, elaborate lists of what she could expect on her wedding night.

Esme had supposed she would be feeling a great range of emotions with the arrival of her wedding day, but one feeling she had not anticipated until far too late was the fear. It was not a fear for her life or health as she had so often felt in the presence of her previous husband, but a kind of vapid, free-flowing, nervous fear that she had never felt before.

It was a part of nature, that to feel intense pleasure, one must first know the feeling of intense pain. How different that pain would be from anything felt in her humanity, she had no idea. But she knew there would be pain. She tried to imagine for a moment what she might be feeling in this exact situation had she _not _been married to Evenson before. Would she feel this same terror regarding consummation, or would she be simply concerned? It did her no good to dwell on these things, but she was helpless to worry herself sick through the night nevertheless.

The anxiety, no matter how much she prayed it to leave her, would not dissipate. Instead it grew stronger with each passing hour. And she could do nothing to ignore Carlisle's pacing in the room beneath her.

_What on earth could he have been thinking about? _

Oh, how she ached when he was not with her. Even knowing his presence was under the same roof, mere feet below where she sat, she still could not control the gravity she felt tugging her toward his being every moment. She longed to be beside him, if not within his embrace. It was unbearable, and wicked, and so agonizingly lovely.

She wanted to see him face to face. She wanted to hear his voice. She wanted to feel him.

And yet...

How frightening it would be when it happened.

In some sick way, she wished she _had _recalled more from her previous marriage to Charles. There was a vague memory of blistering pain and defilement, but not much more than that. It was an instant, really. A short minute or two perhaps, not a drawn-out series of events, but they were always the same. He took her from behind, never wanting to see her face as he did it, merciless as he was. He took her and left her, and if she happened to acquire a fresh peppering of bruises, he didn't let it faze him. She had known nothing else. Her experience was but a corrupted shadow of what real lovemaking was meant to be.

She knew Carlisle would want to take her face to face, and this was truly somewhat distressing to her. Not only because she never recalled doing it that way before, but because it seemed, ironically, all the more...invasive.

Thoughts of Carlisle being far too polite in every context to even consider making her submit her dignity in such a manner made it almost crude to even think about. It was puzzling to her now, more so than it had been months before, even in the more graphic realm of her daydreams, why she had not considered anything off-putting about the whole situation before. Now that her wedding night was only a matter of hours away, she was no longer as recklessly eager as she had supposed she would be. Yet, a tiny part inside of her that seemed to swell every second, _wanted_ it.

She vehemently shut that part out. She was too prideful and too fearful to fall to its will.

But she had to wonder, how would they...initiate the process?

There had been no tenderness before or after the act with Charles; that much she recalled quite clearly. There had only been_ the act_, all for his benefit. And then it was over.

She could only imagine it would be completely different with Carlisle. But what would they do with all of the time they had before and after? It was unbearably daunting to think about, and every time she tried to think of it, she came out blank.

They would...kiss each other? Touch each other? But how? How would she find the courage to touch Carlisle any way she wanted? How would she know what _he_ wanted? She couldn't very well ask him. It was so different for him. Anything he did to her, she knew she would find wonderful. In fact, the whole prospect of being alone in a dark room with him without clothing for hours without interruption was frightfully appealing. But despite having suffered through a week's sum of hours spent daydreaming about such things, she now could not imagine it at all. It was too overwhelming to even contemplate.

As if she should be worrying about what would happen beforehand, much less after! What of the act itself? This was what she feared above all else.

What if she was rendered incapable when the moment came? Carlisle would never force her, but would he continue encouraging her? How much impact did physical consummation have on a married couple's happiness? Was it an absolute necessity? Would their wedding night be an abomination without it? Would God disapprove of her if she was unable to...accommodate her husband?

It seemed ridiculous that she was so panicked at the thought, when just hours ago she'd had him pinned to the ground in the forest while they were hunting. She remembered with a secret blush how his hips had knocked against hers so roughly earlier that day. It was like a little glimpse into what he was capable of when he was sexually starved. She couldn't bear to think of Carlisle as being even the tiniest bit aggressive in bed, but she was somehow convinced that once his back met the sheets, he would shock her. His letters, she thought, were proof of this.

Carlisle surely would have had a panic attack if he knew how nervous she was to marry him. She only wished there was some way to know what to expect. To know that she would be pleasing to him. As sad as it sounded, she just wasn't convinced that she could be.

She should have been perfect, because he deserved perfection. He deserved a perfect wife who would love him in perfect ways. Esme's mind had once been filled with a thousand scenarios for how she could have loved Carlisle perfectly, but now that the moment was only a glowing horizon away, she was left breathless, speechless, and guileless before herself and her unsatisfactory fantasies.

She sobbed quietly as the sun rose, asking silently for God's guidance, but lamenting over and over that she could not hear his voice in her head. How she wished to possess Carlisle's faith.

When the horizon was aflame with orange clouds and Edward had not yet returned from his nightly run, she could hold herself back no longer.

"Darling."

Carlisle turned to face her where she stood helplessly in the doorway to his study, and as he leaned against the window, facing the same sunrise she had been watching from the room above, she saw from his state, with a strange comfort that he had been just as tortured all night long as she had been.

She crossed the room in a blur and he caught her perfectly between his arms where she was dangerously willing to succumb to his embrace.

She had to do nothing but let him hold her. She thought of nothing, chased the nagging worries from her mind until she was clear, empty. Her body responded despicably to the delicious warmth radiating from his chest, but there was no chastisement from her mind. It was void at this point.

Neither of them spoke for several minutes. They just held to each other and it was more than enough. This was what she craved so deeply, this tender reassurance. It was safe, it was chaste, and it did not fuel itself on tawdry desires.

She murmured tiny nothings into his shoulder. His name. Her tentative happiness. Her confusion.

His hands swept surely across her back, securing her body to his as he settled his chin atop her head and confessed that he felt the same.

It was incredible, however close in proximity she was to this man, she was never satisfied with the nearness.

"I feel like I can never be close enough to you," she admitted quietly, her small hands gnawing at the strong frame of his back.

He sighed peacefully and his arms strained with the effort to hold her even tighter. "Soon, my darling, we _will_ be close enough."

This, she realized with a start, was what carnal union offered; this was why she desired so indecently to be _connected _to him, for then there would be no distance between them. For once, she would have no unfulfilled drive to be closer still. He would be within her and they would be _one_.

She trembled feverishly at the implication, and her fingers loosened their clutch on his shirt.

"I'm afraid," she whispered under her breath. "Yet... I want you so desperately, Carlisle."

A low, gentle purring sound came from his throat and she was corrupted by another wave of smarting heat between her thighs. His hands scooped the small of her back softly against him and before she could register the intensity of their subtle contact, his lips were locked in fervent communion with hers. Warm, moist, and urgent, furiously fanning the flames of her fire.

His hands then worked their way up steadily to grasp her wrists, his fingers stroking the underside of her hands.

"I _promise _I will take care of you."

A rich shiver sliced through her body at the tenderness of his words.

_He would take care of her._

Sweet relief and something like a more intense sort of nervousness swelled inside of her simultaneously, leaving her more confused.

"Have you...prayed about this?" She had to ask, hoping for that new reassurance that perhaps God would be on her side now.

His voice was so impassioned it hurt her to hear it. "Yes. _Fervently_, darling."

Her heart was permanently immobile, but it was perfectly capable of jumping to life when he spoke like that.

"I love you, Esme. I cannot say it enough," he murmured into her hair, his voice reverberating through her chest.

"But I love you so much more, Carlisle."

"Stop that."

She trembled at the way he said the words – the softest possible way to chide someone. But it made her more guilty than a ruthless shout would have.

She whimpered into his shoulder.

"I don't want you to believe there is any imbalance in the reciprocation of our love for each other. Because there isn't," he said sternly but softly, stroking a lock of her hair between his fingers.

"That isn't what worries me," she admitted.

It only took a prolonged moment of staring into her eyes for Carlisle to know the nature of her concern. When he next spoke, his eyes were passionate, but they were laced with pain, and his voice mirrored his complex gaze.

"I know that you have associations surrounding marital relations, and the stories of your former husband have pained me more than anything else." He did not struggle once with the words; it was like he had prepared them in advance, only she knew it to be just the opposite. Everything Carlisle said came directly from his heart, and Esme was beginning to realize all the more that he could not help that fact.

He visibly prepared himself before revealing his next words to her, inhaling deeply and releasing the breath through parted lips. "I cannot promise you that your fears and memories will simply disappear the moment we are married." She bristled a bit at his forthright honesty, but deep down, she felt a profound appreciation that he was not patronizing enough to avoid the subject altogether. "But I can promise that I will do everything in my power to be a faithful, supportive husband for you, no matter what happens to us."

It was the easiest thing in the world to believe every word Carlisle said when he spoke to her. She trusted him dangerously. It was such a stark contrast to the way she could do anything but rely on Charles.

Carlisle was so consistently steadfast in his compassion, and that was comforting to her. However, there remained the stressful backdrop of her past, and even with her human memories half-erased, the trauma inflicted on her by her first husband was not something she could easily forget.

"Do you really love me that much?" she asked Carlisle in a tiny voice, more out of awe than insecurity.

"You're the only woman I've ever come_ close _to loving, Esme," he assured passionately, rubbing soothing circles into her back with both hands. "Never question the sincerity of my love."

"I'm sorry." She steadied her voice before continuing, eyes fixed on the peeking edges of the scars on his throat. "I only ever wanted you to love me, and I suppose...when you finally said that you loved me back, it was beyond anything I had ever expected to happen. I just couldn't believe it."

He gently lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his warm eyes. "You believe it now, don't you?" The corner of his lips twitched lightly with the threat of a smile, and she nodded calmly.

"Yes."

"I think you always have," he whispered so faintly, it was but a breath against her ear as he leaned closer, nuzzling her cheek affectionately. "You never need to be afraid of this, Esme."

She whimpered weakly as his hands swept down the sides of her waist and he bent lower to caress her throat with the tip of his nose.

"No matter what happens, know that I will always love you," he finished, leaving a fragile kiss on her cheek. By that time the sun had fully risen outside the window.

And with that he sent her off to prepare herself for the wedding.

Her footsteps were eerily quiet as she made her way into her bedroom. This was the last day she would call it her own. Hours later, it would belong as much to Carlisle as it did to her.

Her eyes purposefully looked away from the bed this time, not because it was intimidating to her, but because on its covers lay her wedding gown. Earlier that day, Edward had picked it up from the Sauvageons' shop, all wrapped and ready, and brought it back to the house. Esme refused to see it until the very last minute. Though the temptation was nagging, she still managed to keep her gaze on everything but that dress.

She stared at the familiar surroundings of her bedroom instead; the beautiful furnishings, the romantic blue decor. Carlisle's painting still glistened above the fireplace, like a mystical window to an eternal night.

Hanging on the knob of her armoire was the robe Carlisle had bought her when she had first started living with him. It was one of the first articles of clothing he'd brought up to her room, back when the things he had given her were not so unethically luxurious. She reached out for the robe and touched it, remembering the first time she had felt the warm fibers of Turkish cotton with her sensitive fingertips. She smiled.

Over time Carlisle's gifts had certainly grown more lavish, but no less meaningful. Nevertheless, there was still something special about those first few basic necessities he had given her.

Shivering, Esme gathered her simple robe and headed into the bathroom. She undressed hastily, pretending not to notice the obvious signs of arousal as her body was freed of clothing. As she bent to turn on the faucet to the tub, she was distracted by the sight of her bare back in the mirror. A row of tiny divots that marked the slope of her spine caught her eye, something she had never seen before.

She bent experimentally in several directions, studying the way the light highlighted the subtle bones in her back. It was an innocent observation, but it soon turned into something much more intense. Before she realized it, Esme had stepped shyly up to the floor-length mirror, standing stark naked in front of the reflecting glass. The soft light of early morning peeked through the milky glass panes of a window near the top of the wall, making her skin look even paler and more vulnerable.

She stared at her body in wonder, pursued by a tickle of fear as her eyes took in every flawless feature. Her fingers hesitated before they pressed first gently to the side of her neck where the scars from Carlisle's bite lingered. From there they slowly traveled down the front of her throat, ghosting along her collarbone and then between her ribs. She tried to meet her own eyes as she touched herself, but it was surprisingly difficult. Timidity engulfed her at the thought of staring into a man's eyes as his hands roamed her body. Simply imagining it enticed her cheeks to flame and her legs to quiver.

Esme swallowed audibly as she took another step closer to the mirror, forcing herself to face the fullness of her nude body. With neutral eyes, there was truly nothing shameful about such a sight. Artists through the ages had praised and admired the female nude in thousands of ways; it was an utterly beautiful thing. Why should it inspire shame?

If she imagined herself as a woman in one of Delacroix's paintings, it gave her some sense of entitlement, a means to more readily embrace her nudity. It felt a little bit ridiculous at first, but thinking of things from a purely artistic perspective helped a great deal in putting her at ease. Feeling bolder, she lifted her arms and stretched them out above her head, turning to one side to inspect the curve of her back as she reached. Her hair tumbled in capricious curls against her shoulders as she turned her head, and she ran her fingers through them tenderly. Her fingers trailed down the front of her chest, abandoning all hesitation.

She cupped her breasts in her hands, rested her palms flat against her belly, and circled her bellybutton with her thumb. She grazed her fingertips against the skin on her thighs, imagining how Carlisle might react when he felt her this way.

For a fraction of a second, she could almost feel his hands on her – so much broader, so much stronger, so much warmer – the titillating heat of his love ripe and burning on each of his fingertips. As she closed her eyes, her legs felt firmer with determination, her body filling with solid fire and an alert feminine confidence. All she knew in that moment was this feeling of _want. _It was an electrifying sensation, possessing her from head to toe.

She could see for that instant how easy it could be to open herself to him without hiding anything. There was something enchanting about this idea of being brutally bare before him, that she would be allowing him to grasp and touch any part of her that he wished without warning. That they would be free to fondle and provoke, to pull and prod and knead, to tease and tempt and taste... It was all so uncouth when she thought of it. But it was uncouth in a purely beautiful way.

Carlisle was a passionate man, and though it went against his introverted nature, she couldn't help but wonder if he were likely to become very impulsive in the bedroom. Lately he'd been giving her subtle hints that he might be. His formalities were wearing away to reveal another side of him, a side that was raw and guileless.

With every minute they came closer to the wedding, her urge to explore the deepest core of his spirit grew stronger.

Feeling weak in the knees, Esme stepped into the cold bath water and washed herself in record time. She wrapped herself up in her robe and finally stepped back into the bedroom. Outside the windows, green treetops in the distance were tipped with glowing orange sunlight, and the lake shimmered in stillness. Inside, the room was silent except for the hollow sound of water droplets falling from her wet hair onto the carpet. On the fireplace mantle, the five empty vases sat watching her curiously as she approached the bed.

This time Esme gave into the temptation and let her eyes feast on the sight of her very own wedding gown. Her gasp caught in her throat.

It was a masterpiece.

Against the tender blue tones of the bed, her white dress shone like a wave of pure starlight on an ocean of dark covers. Edward had placed it in the center of the mattress so that the train of the dress spilled over the edge of the bed like a shimmering white waterfall. Just as she'd suggested to the sisters, the moon colored silk had been draped elegantly with cream colored lace, both fabrics blending together in an ideal harmony. The lace had been trimmed down to form an intricate bodice and a pair of sweeping sleeves with long slits down the sides to reveal her skin. The rest of the gown was flowing and simple, gathered only slightly at the very foot of the skirt where the tips of her toes would show if she walked.

The sight of her dress was so beautiful, blinking felt like a sin.

A silly smile pasted on her face, Esme moved closer to the work of art and extended curious fingers to touch it. The white waterfall of silk rippled under her fingertips. She only hoped it would look just as nice on her body as it looked lying on the bed.

When Esme stood back to remove her robe, she noticed a curious object on the ground beside her nightstand. There on the carpet, a brown box with a pale pink ribbon sat, as if ut had been placed there by Saint Nicholas himself.

She bent down to untie the ribbon and unfold the note that was tucked inside it.

_Dear Esme, _

_I know you have an aversion to wearing shoes, but I think your wedding is one occasion where they are absolutely necessary. _

_Hope you like these enough to agree with me._

_Edward_

Grinning like a little girl on her birthday, Esme tugged the lid off the box to reveal an enchanting pair of slippers. They were as white as her gown, but made from a soft, matte material that shimmered ever so slightly when the light changed. It gave the shoes the dreamy illusion that they were coated in fresh snow.

She knew she wasn't supposed to change into that dress or those shoes right now. She knew they were going to wrap all of her clothes back up and take them to the church where she would be changing into them right before the ceremony. But she was far too curious to see what she would look like when she would walk down the aisle. She hadn't the patience or the willpower to wait any longer. So she decided to try everything on in the privacy of her bedroom, for her eyes only.

Esme imagined her heart was thumping away the entire time she dressed herself. She took her time with each piece of her ensemble, remarking silently on its beauty and perfection. She was slow and precise, savoring every whisper of fabric that glossed over her skin. By the time she had finished, her hair had already dried, falling in loose curls over her shoulders. She decided then that she would keep it that way for her wedding that evening. Like everything else, it should be natural, honest.

Once everything was in place, she stepped back and stared at herself in the mirror again, but this time she was not nervous to meet the eyes of the woman staring back at her.

Whether she was clothed in the purest white silk or the purest white skin, Esme finally allowed herself to believe that she was beautiful in every way.

* * *

**You can read Carlisle's POV of this chapter in Chapter 40 of Behind Stained Glass, "Striking a Chord."**

**Thank you all once again for being such wonderful, devoted readers. **


	62. Vows

**Chapter 62:**

**Vows**

* * *

"What are you smiling about?" Edward asked Esme from the bottom of the staircase when he saw her face. His tone was sly but his face was full of fondness and complete understanding.

"I have a thousand reasons to smile today," Esme replied blissfully as she sailed down the stairs to meet him. "Must I name them all?"

"I already know them," he said warmly. He glanced at her bare feet when she reached the bottom stair. She was dressed in her regular clothes now, but from the look on his face it was clear he was still watching flashbacks of her reflection in her bedroom mirror, dressed in her wedding gown.

Esme looked down bashfully, hoping he wouldn't chide her for trying on the dress too early. He chuckled at her reaction and touched her shoulder comfortingly. "Can I assume the shoes I got for you were nice enough that you'll be wearing them tonight?"

She giggled and kissed his cheek. "Of course I'll be wearing them. I absolutely loved them." She looked briefly around the hall, wondering why Carlisle's scent suddenly seemed so far away.

"He's in the garden," Edward said with a nod toward the door.

So she went outside to find him.

The air was sweet and moist, and the vines of the willow trees still dripped rainwater from last night's storm. As she passed by the willows, she thought they resembled sheer green sheets that had been hung up to dry in the sun. Dew drenched grass squished beneath her bare feet as she made her way through the yard toward the garden gate. She could hear his footsteps on the cobblestones, strong and measured. She followed the sound around the perimeter of the garden for a short distance until he stopped. Her ear brushed against the hedges as she leaned closer and listened to the distinct sound of flowers being picked on the other side.

Smiling to herself, Esme peeked around the corner hedge and found a perfect view of her gentle doctor where he stood plucking small white flowers from a vine that grew along the garden wall. He turned just slightly, enough for her to see his entire body's profile, but it was such a beautiful sight that her knees wobbled like a fawn trying to stand on its own for the first time.

He did not look at her directly, but she was sure that he must be aware of her presence – or at least suspicious of it. His face was tranquil, as were the motions of his arms as he reached for the flowers that grew higher up on the wall. She had to admire how handsome he looked, bathed by the sun, against a rich tapestry of fertile flowers and plants. He was so tall he could easily see over the wall if he lifted his heels from the ground. Even now, after having seen him from a fair distance many times, she still found the length of his legs to be striking. Especially when he was wearing those boots.

Esme leaned against the garden gate with a sigh.

In just a few short hours, this man would be her husband. The thought was still too marvelous to be real.

Even those flowers on the vine were trembling in anticipation for when his fingers would finally touch them. The entire garden was smitten with him, as affected as she was by the strapping young man whose golden hair shone like the sun itself.

"I am being watched, aren't I?" he whispered teasingly, his back still turned to her as he continued picking flowers off the vine.

A tickle of excitement raced up Esme's spine as she stepped between the bars of the gate to approach him. Her hands splayed against his lower back and moved slowly up to his shoulders. "Mmhmm... Now you're being touched," she whispered, her lips pressed against his sleeve. She felt the breath leave his body as he began to turn around.

Her nose was assaulted by a burst of sweet summer perfume as he held before her a bouquet of fresh flowers from the garden. Among them were white roses, eglantine, and daisies – all were even whiter than his hands. But most notable were the glistening blue cornflowers that dotted the pale cluster of blossoms like studs of sapphire in a snowball.

"Something blue," he supplied softly, lowering the bouquet to reserve some space between their bodies.

Esme reached up to touch the velvet blue petals of one tiny flower. "I imagine a very, very long time ago, your eyes were once this color."

She locked gazes with the beautiful man in front of her, moved as always to find his eyes overflowing with love for her. They were not a sea of blue, but rather a sea of gold, alight with glittering spears of obsidian – sleek daggers of desire.

A quiet gasp fled her lips, and a knowing smile found his. "Perhaps," he murmured. She felt him prying her fingers open just enough to slide his gathered stalk of stems into her hand. "I want you to hold these at our wedding."

She smiled back at him, knowing he needed nothing more for an answer. She grasped the flowers tightly and bowed her head to inhale their fragrance. Her eyes fluttered open and she raised her head slowly, watching his face as he began to speak.

"When one first sees these flowers, one considers them spotless, pure...gentle and chaste. But they have a darker side to them." He pushed a few roses aside and revealed three strange looking flowers that were hidden beneath the rest. Esme immediately recognized the striking blooms as white anemones. With their midnight black centers surrounded by icy white petals, they made a stirring statement.

She looked up to him questioningly.

"We can keep them hidden if we wish," he whispered as he prodded one soft black bud, "or we can find it in ourselves to see the rare beauty in these flowers; to appreciate and revere the darkness they keep inside." There was a frightening significance in his eyes as he spoke. He was talking about these flowers as if they were extensions of his soul.

That was when it hit her.

He _wasn't _talking about those flowers. He was talking about himself.

"I made a promise to you, Esme. A promise to always love you and care for you no matter what." His eyes deepened as he continued, "Now I must ask you to promise me something in return."

Her tongue was tied, but she managed to stutter, "Anything."

Those daggers of desire she had seen in his eyes were threatening to pierce her.

"Promise me that you will not hide your darker side from me," he said slowly.

Esme blanched in coy confusion. "I have a darker side?"

"Everyone does," he said, a haunting gleam in his eyes. With his smallest finger he lazily caressed the petals of one white anemone.

Esme gulped. "If you're talking about our hunt yesterday—"

"It isn't only that." He withdrew his touch from the bouquet to find his fingertips coated in dark pollen. His eyes again met hers.

"I think I'm still unsure as to what my 'darker side' is..." she murmured, wishfully cryptic.

His voice was a shade deeper when he replied, "Then you must promise me that we will discover it together."

Her eyes felt as if they could water, they were open so wide. It was as if she were trying to drink in the sight of him through her gaze. "I promise," she finally said, though her words were inaudible at best.

Carlisle leaned closer, his breath ragged and heavy. "And promise me that you will not shy away from _my _dark side..."

The intensity in his voice flustered her, and she tried to turn away. "Too many promises," she muttered breathlessly.

"Promise me, Esme," he demanded in a desperate whisper.

Esme held her bouquet close to her chest and stared shyly down at the flowers, avoiding his eyes. "When you speak of this...darker side...what is it you really mean?"

He stepped closer to her. "Do you remember what I told you...about the rest of those letters I'd written to you?" He slipped one finger beneath her chin and tilted her head up, catching her eye. "The letters I burned?"

Esme realized then why he must have destroyed those precious pieces of his soul.

He had thought they were too indecent for her to read.

"I promise."

The words were out of her mouth before she even had a chance to think them.

Carlisle looked both stunned and pleased. "Oh, there is so much I want to give you, Esme," he murmured as he held her firmly against him, the scents of incense, old books, and the sea melting together in his embrace, "...so many things I want you to see."

She shivered at his words. At the same moment she could hear the clock singing out the hour back in the house. From the way Carlisle's body became wonderfully tense, she assumed he had heard it too.

"One more hour has passed," she announced softly.

"And another will follow," he added.

"It can't come soon enough," she whispered, with all the longing of a young girl waiting for her father to come home from war.

Carlisle let his arms loosen around her and backed away to stare lovingly down at her. Still clutching her bouquet of flowers, Esme stared humbly back at him, wondering how it was possible that he looked so breathless as he held her face with his hands. "Still I dream of that moment when you will call me 'husband,'" he whispered to her.

"My heart has called you my husband since the day we met," said Esme.

His eyes sparkled reverently as he leaned close to her face. She assumed he was about to kiss her, but instead he only lingered there, breathing heavily, inches away from her waiting lips.

"Aren't you going to kiss me?" her feeble voice managed.

He hushed her softly, but still did not move to kiss her. After the waiting proved too much for her to take, she opened her eyes to relieve some of the torture and whimpered, "Carlisle...what are you doing?"

"Making a memory of what this feels like," he said slowly as he stroked her bottom lip with his fingertip, his breath still hot against her chin.

"What _what _feels like?" asked Esme.

"Resisting you."

Deep inside, she felt her heart shudder. Her eyes lowered to watch his slightly open lips as he hovered beside her face – his supple skin, and the softly squared end of his chin, and the pleading plushness of his lips were all too much for her to deny. She could not wait here while her heart collected the dust of his desires, and he could not expect her to stay still while he tortured her like this.

"Damn resistance," she suddenly hissed, the bouquet still tight in her hand as she crushed herself against his chest and attempted to kiss him.

He lifted his head just in time so she couldn't reach. "Esme, in seven hours we will be husband and wife," he reminded her, surprisingly patient. "But for now, live in this moment with me. Embrace these feelings of longing and desperation while they last. Because when the sun sets tonight, God willing, these feelings will fade." His words became whispers, his musical voice hoarse with lustful hope. "And when they do, we will look back on this time and wonder how we ever felt so incomplete..."

Esme sighed. The flowers in her bouquet seemed to wilt all at once, fainting when they heard Carlisle speak.

She asked him once more for a kiss, but he denied her, promising that their next kiss would be reserved for the altar.

**-}0{-**

It was the longest day of her life, not to mention one she never thought she would see. Carlisle was assigned to work a very short shift at the hospital that day, after which he promised to meet Esme and Edward at the church for the ceremony. As much as she wished they could travel to the church together, she knew that the distance apart would make their reunion that night even sweeter.

He kissed her cheek before he left, and she felt the fiery echo of that chaste kiss burning on her skin for the rest of the day.

Edward graciously helped her prepare for the evening while Carlisle was away.

"I still can't believe this day is finally here," she sighed while arranging herself in front of her bedroom mirror.

Edward laughed lovingly from the corner of the room. "You and Carlisle both know it should have come much sooner than this."

She smiled at his reflection behind her. "Maybe you're right. But even looking back on the way things turned out, I wouldn't change a thing." She paused before stepping back to adjust the belt on her conservative black dress. "We belong together now. That is all that matters."

"The best part is that I get to share your joy," said Edward.

Esme mumbled bashfully in agreement as she turned around to give him a quick embrace. "I wouldn't have ever made it this far if it weren't for you."

"I think you would have made it eventually," he teased, "though it may have taken a couple more years."

She shook her head at him, giggling as she gently wrapped tissue paper around the bouquet Carlisle had arranged for her that morning. Feeling the crinkle of tissue paper beneath her fingers brought to mind the paper flowers they had made together a long time ago for one of Carlisle's patients. She grinned at the vivid memory.

Edward helped her hang her wedding gown and secure it inside a garment cover so it would be safe while they traveled. Her new white slippers were moved into a locked carrying case, along with her bouquet.

When everything was wrapped up and ready, Esme turned back to her mirror to take care of the finishing touches. She reached into her vanity drawer for one of the few pieces of jewelry she owned that would be appropriate for a wedding. With slightly shaky hands she lifted the pearl choker to her neck and feigned struggling with the latch in the back so that she could ask Edward for help.

"Can you get the clasp for my necklace?"

He nodded politely and came up behind her to connect the tiny metal latches. "There."

"Thank you."

They were silent for a few moments as they both stared at their reflection in the mirror, before Edward hastily turned away to glance out the window. "Looks nice and cloudy right now," he remarked, lifting the garment bag over his shoulder. "Let's get a head start."

Esme snapped out of her reverie and nodded. "I just need my boots."

She rushed downstairs ahead of Edward, eager to reach the foyer before him. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she froze before the front door, staring up at that little oddly shaped stained glass window on the wall. Its colors were brighter every time she looked at it.

It struck her then that once she left this house, the next time she came back to it, she would be married to Carlisle. And this house would belong to her as much as it belonged to him.

She opened the door and started to step outside without putting on her shoes first.

"Your boots, Esme?" Edward reminded her, tugging her by her sleeve back into the house.

"Oh, right..."

He chuckled and held out each boot for her so she could slip her feet into them one at a time. She didn't know why putting on boots felt so significant on this day; all she knew was she liked the way they felt.

"We should get going. We have a long walk ahead of us," said Edward. He looked into her eyes and took her hand. "Are you ready?"

After taking one last look around the house, Esme nodded. "Yes."

And they went on their way.

**-}0{-**

The walk to the church was indeed long, but very scenic and relaxing. Sporadic openings in the clouds offered them a chance to take detours through the shady forests to avoid being seen in the sun, but it also added an extra hour to the length of their walk.

Carlisle was already there when they arrived. Esme could feel his presence even before she could catch his scent, and she took off running ahead of Edward once the church was in sight.

Her beloved doctor found her first with open arms on the steps to the cathedral. "It's really happening," she sighed as he embraced her. "We're about to be married."

He was too overwhelmed to speak to her then, but his smile told her everything she needed to know. He eagerly urged her up the steps and opened the doors to let her and Edward inside.

"I hear Father Simon coming now," Edward whispered after the doors were closed. "I'll go greet him and tell him where we are."

Esme watched the boy slip through a side door, seemingly eager to leave her alone with Carlisle. Once they were by themselves, Carlisle found his voice again.

"How are you feeling?" he asked her breathlessly, his features glistening with excitement in the flickering light of a hundred tiny candles.

"Like my feet aren't touching the ground," Esme admitted.

They broke into a bout of hushed, nervous laughter at her silly remark. Carlisle glanced down to confirm her adherence to gravity. "In those boots I'm not surprised."

"I wanted to come barefoot," she whispered mischievously.

"I'm sure you did."

"Edward wouldn't let me."

Carlisle's laughter sounded even warmer in the dim silence of the vestibule. He looked so at home here among the candles, and the mosaics of angels and saints, and the stained glass arches.

When his laughter faded, she asked him softly, "What do you think it will be like?"

Knowing she was not speaking of what would happen on the altar, he turned to her with eyes like sunbeams and pulled her close. "You know that warm feeling you sometimes get in the deepest part of your stomach?"

As though he had summoned it with his description, the feeling struck her more viciously than it ever had before. With a tremulous breath, she nodded against his shoulder.

"I think it will be like that," he whispered huskily into her ear, "only it will last much longer."

He said it would be like touching for the first time. He said it might be like music without sound. He said if her heart had a voice, it might be like hearing it sing. He said it might be a bit frightening, but in a wonderful sort of way. He told her if it would change them, it would be a change for the better.

And each time he told her what he thought it might be like, she trembled and held him tighter.

"I love you." He finally murmured the sacred trio of words against her forehead, his voice like the silken thread of a spider web. He released her from his desperate embrace and briefly touched his lips to her cheek. "It's time for us to get ready."

He nodded toward the door behind her and helped her to turn around.

Their hands did not part until the very last second, and then the door was closed between them.

Esme donned her wedding gown for the second time, in front of a much smaller mirror and under much poorer lighting...but she looked twice as beautiful this time around.

There was no question in her heart as to why.

All the while a secret pleasure coursed through her entire body, cycling like smooth fire up and down every limb. Her legs were wobbly and her fingers were shaking, and everything inside of her felt so warm and nervous and _right_.

After a little while Edward knocked on the door, four times, softly. She opened it and he told her how beautiful she looked. He offered her his arm, and the candles on the wall flickered, and the wind outside sounded like music to her ears. She clutched her bouquet with the white and blue flowers, and made sure the anemones were not hidden when she carried them.

In moments she found herself being escorted down the aisle of an empty cathedral. The room looked so vast that it could have scarcely been called a room. Where she had once found herself fixated by the architecture and artwork of this very church, she now could do nothing but focus on the man who stood waiting for her at the other end.

Seventy-five and a half feet she walked to reach him on that night, but he knew and she knew that it had taken much longer than that for them to reach each other. A little over a decade, to be exact.

The young minister who stood beside Carlisle was a quiet and humble man who looked upon the couple as if he knew their secret... and Esme genuinely wondered if he did, being enlightened by the Lord. The kind soul had nevertheless consented to marry them with only one witness who had credibly claimed to have the eighteen necessary years to his name.

Edward crushed Esme's hand lovingly between his before releasing her to stand on her own beside his father on the altar. She was incapable of losing her balance now, but the balance of her heart, mind, and soul was brutally disobedient.

Esme was still stunned to see her unattainable doctor standing across from her on the altar of a magnificent cathedral. Several times she had to let her gaze drop to their feet to be sure this _was_ an altar and not just a false stage of marble. Carlisle looked like an archangel, even dressed in deepest black from neck to foot. The holy glow to his countenance was further nurtured by the wall of stained glass windows that glittered behind him.

Time began and paused in odd patterns as the wedding service slipped by. She could grasp a few key words of the vaguely familiar recitation being uttered beside her from a foreign voice. A foreign heartbeat was there too, providing steady punctuation for every sweet sentence, and she had not even needed to seduce herself into ignoring it.

Carlisle smiled at her the entire time. His face was like gold, staring back at her. All of him, even buried under a black suit, was gold. She could just sense it.

For a strange second or so, Edward looked to be staring at her even more lovingly than Carlisle was. It still struck her, as it always did, when they stood beside each other, both facing her _– _their unique but undeniable handsomeness was truly heightened by their proximity to one another. For that precious moment they really did look to her like father and son. Edward averted his eyes as she thought these things, and she imagined he would have been blushing inside.

Father Simon had an incredibly clement, flowing tone of speech. He recited the entire service without any text to guide him, he did it purely from memory. After a while, Esme began to pick up his complete words again. In the back of her mind, she knew that there was a point of no return, and she had wanted nothing more than to dive past it headfirst.

That point of no return had finally come.

She felt her finger being bound with a tiny circle of hot and cold and fierce fidelity. Carlisle did not stop until the ring was securely fitted to the very base of her finger, and there she knew it would cling forever.

Trembling, she found his second to last finger and pressed the pale golden band past his nail, past his knuckle... and she kept on pressing gently the rest of the way, until the girth of his finger kept it from fitting any further. She let go, watching his fingers relax into their order, their perfect pallor making the golden gleam of his ring look dim in comparison.

A murmur of significant words grazed past her flawless ears, echoing mystically around the vast and silent cathedral. The infamous prose was finally crowned by a familiar voice, uttering two distinct syllables for her to treasure_. _

_"I do."_

It was the last and first of many miracles as she felt her own lips repeating the smallest and biggest of promises.

As she turned her eyes to look above, a glossy beam of blinding light dropped over her. She wondered what its source was, until she saw that it was spilling from Carlisle's gaze...her husband's gaze.

The most dizzying sensation of pure, unfettered joy overcame Esme as she lost herself in his eyes. He, too, looked so happily lost in the moment, so devoted and so fixated on her that she wanted to run back down the aisle and start the whole ceremony over just to relive that little moment when they first locked gazes as husband and wife.

But that would have been impossible, for she was rooted toher spot, here on the altar. With notoriously gentle fingers he swept her small chin into his strong right hand and tasted her lips for the first time as her husband.

**-}0{-**

That first walk down the aisle as a newly married woman was an unfathomable experience for Esme. There were too many details to take in, too many words being exchanged between the priest and Carlisle, and Carlisle and Edward, and Edward and the priest. All she could do was smile in disbelief, and tremble as Carlisle held her hand and guided her through the center aisle, toward the doors that led to a new outside world.

Though the sky was overcast, the early evening sun had just barely filtered through the thick clouds, dressing up all of nature in a glorious pink glow. It reflected quite well the way Esme felt on the inside, all aglow in a haze of pure happiness. Carlisle exchanged a few words with Father Simon, who congratulated the new couple with a tip of his hat and a soft word of farewell.

They watched him disappear around the corner, behind the trees, and into the shadows. And it was just the three of them, standing on the steps to the cathedral, staring at each other in disbelief.

A gust of wind swirled around them, marking the beginning of a new wave of change. It set within them a charge of excitement, and sent them running off like children into the deserted street. And Esme thought of how many times she had shied away from telling Carlisle that she loved him, and she wondered why she hadn't done it the second she woke up as a vampire.

She thought that his smile was beautiful enough to make all of nature sigh. His hands were strong enough to tug her along to the ends of the earth and back again. His eyes were deep enough to hide a thousand soul-thrilling secrets. He ran along with her like a capricious schoolboy, his gorgeous laughter rolling like a chorus of bells as he chanted ecstatically_, "We're married!",_ over and over, so that every tree in the forest heard the news.

All the while, Esme's heart was writing a very intimate letter to Carlisle. All the while she was thinking of how to respond to the many letters he had written for her over the past year. For the time being, the end result was only inked in the back of her mind. As for whether her words would ever reach a piece of paper, in some outrageously colored calligraphy... only time would tell.

Esme's very first love letter to Carlisle read something like this:

_My dearest Carlisle, _

_Nearly eleven years ago we met in the stuffy little sitting room of my parents' farmhouse in Columbus, Ohio. When I first laid eyes on you, I believed you were a vision sent to me from God Himself. Since that night I never wanted to let go of you, either in my memory or in my heart. For years I wished we would somehow cross paths again, but never once did I believe that my wishing would come true._

_After many a miracle, we happened to find each other again. More than that, we grew together as friends, we learned to see each other as family, and after a while, as lovers. We discovered things about ourselves that we would never tell another soul for as long we lived. We surrendered ourselves to the erratic embrace of destiny, and we were rewarded with the most precious of gifts. _

_Today is our wedding day, and I am beyond thrilled to be able to call myself your wife. You claim that you are the fortunate one to have found me, but I must assure you that I am indeed the fortunate one. You rescued me when I had no one to call my hero. You turned my life around and proved to me that there is still purity and goodness and kindness and compassion to be found in this world. You took me into your home and provided for me when I had no place to go. You nurtured me and taught me valuable lessons and guided me with endless patience down the path I needed to follow. The many hardships we endured along our way are beautiful reminders of where we came from, and evidence of what we can overcome when we are together. _

_I am ready and willing to share my life with you. I am eager to show you everything I have to offer you as your wife, and as your soul mate. You are truly a remarkable man _– _a soul more beautiful than yours, I am sure, does not exist. I could not be more honored to call you mine. _

_Yours forever, _

_Esme_

**-}0{-**

The sun was just beginning to set when they arrived home that evening. The clouds politely faded from the sky to make way for the first flickering stars of twilight. From the cobbled forest roadside, grand old Chartercrest had never before looked so much like _home. _Esme looked upon the mansion with new eyes, as she suspected she might after being married. It was like waking up a vampire all over again. She had been transformed, though not by something painful. It was transformation brought about by love.

Edward led the way back to the very same front door. He opened the door, and it squeaked softly in welcome as it always did. They stepped into the very same foyer, where the light streamed through the very same stained glass window.

Everything was the same, but so, so different.

They were somehow weary in a way, coming down from the high of having just been married. The knowledge was beginning to sink in little by little, but it was no less incredible to think about.

She'd left her veil on the sitting room chaise, and her bouquet on the bottom stair, and her snowy white slippers under the tea table, and then she'd tucked her white gown modestly underneath her jacket, as if to hide the fact that she was a new bride.

Carlisle held her hand through it all, but since he had come into the house, he had gone completely silent. Edward was asking casual questions about domestic things, trying to relieve the awkward tension that was certainly screaming through his counterparts' minds. Esme conversed politely with Edward for a minute or two, but Carlisle still said nothing. She had the distinct feeling that he was not even attending to their conversation. He seemed to be far away somewhere; his eyes were lost, though not precisely troubled. Just when she thought he looked to have a smile on his face, she second guessed whether it was really a smile or just a trick of the light.

Edward's eyes darkened as he sent his father a wary glance. Then he spoke in an uncharacteristically gentle voice to Carlisle. "If it's all right, I'd like to talk to Esme for a few minutes... Alone?"

As if waking from a dream, Carlisle blinked his eyes, and with slight reluctance he nodded his consent. His hand firmed around hers for only an instant, as though he were rebelling against letting her go.

"I'll just...be in my study," he said as he released his new wife's hand. She would have tried to keep her hold on him, but now she knew that any time he left her, it would not be for long.

She gazed up at him, and held his eyes for the briefest of moments, gently plunging her consciousness into his own. His eyes seared hers in that moment, both knowing and utterly unknowing at once. It almost frightened her.

Carlisle kissed Esme's temple discreetly before he parted from her, leaving her to stand beside his son in the empty room.

Without a word, Edward clasped Esme's hand and led her outside to the very place where they used to practice archery together.

He paced by the tree for a little while, planning how to say what he wanted to say. She watched him expectantly for a few seconds, then her thoughts were drawn astray by the knowledge that Carlisle was still inside the house. Her _husband _was still inside the house. Waiting for her.

"Esme," Edward began, in that new gentle voice he had just used with Carlisle.

Her breath caught in her throat as she turned to face him. It surprised her to see that he wore a small smile.

He looked down. "I, uh... Well, there's something I thought you should know before..." He winced and squinted uncomfortably, shifting from one foot to the other, emphasizing his lovably crooked stance. "Well, I wanted to say something. Just to you."

"Go on," she urged, her thoughts kept careful and clear for him.

"While listening to the vows this evening, I could only think that... that I want to be there for you, just as much as Carlisle will be." He attempted to straighten up, but his shoulders still sloped awkwardly. "I know you think of me as a son."

She smiled warmly, shooing away the sobs that threatened to quake in her throat.

"And I want you to know that I don't _need _a mother. I never have." She was taken aback by his words at first, until she noticed the revealing smile on his lips and he finished quietly, "But that doesn't mean I don't _want _a mother." He swallowed and stepped forward, slightly closer to her. His voice was suddenly small and clean, with an irresistibly youthful lilt. "I want _you _to be my mother."

"Oh, Edward." Before either of them could register the movement, they were pressed together in a firm embrace. "I love you so much, darling."

He leaned his head onto her small shoulder for support, breathing against her hair. "I know you do," he murmured against her ear, "I love you, too, Esme. You _and _Carlisle. It's just that sometimes I feel like no one understands _my _feelings."

She held him fiercely as he confessed his insecurity, wanting nothing more than to give him the love that held the world together through the insignificant pressure of her arms.

"_I_ understand you, Edward," she assured him with tender strokes across his sinewy back, "_Carlisle_ understands you. We know that you love us."

Her hand weaved its way into his soft copper hair, mussing it lovingly as he composed himself.

"You deserve each other," he mused in a hushed, trembling voice against her shoulder. "I kept you apart long enough."

"_You _never kept us apart, Edward," she protested vehemently, tugging herself away just enough to look sharply into his eyes. Her voice dropped to a regretful whisper. "_We _did that to ourselves."

Edward just stared solemnly down at her, and there was a strange, Biblical beauty to his youthful face as she reached up to stroke the fringe from his forehead. He did not argue, having heard the justification in her thoughts, having seen the evidence of her flashing memories. He bowed his head slowly and his brow lined with worry.

"What is it, darling?" she asked him, prodding at his chin with her two forefingers in the way Carlisle sometimes did to her.

"Do you think things will change a lot?" he whispered.

"Things may change, but _we _will not," she said with a smile of motherly wisdom. "We will always be here for each other, no matter what happens. Can you make that promise for me, Edward?"

He nodded resolutely, his face strong, but still disconcertingly young looking. In fact, Esme had never before looked at Edward as being very much younger than her. But right now he looked like he was no more than twelve years old. He looked like he _needed _her in this moment.

Her hands cupped the sides of his angled face, and she cocked her head in bittersweet wonder as she stared up into his hopeful eyes. "My son..."

His striking topaz eyes closed under her touch and he breathed easily, his concern at once melting from his features.

"I love you," she repeated, because she could never grow tired of saying the words to everyone around her tonight. It fascinated her that the words never lost their power no matter how often they were uttered.

The small crooked smirk she knew came back, and she smiled in the light of its return. "Thank you."

Esme did not need to be thanked for giving away her love, but Edward already knew this. He let out a careful breath and made to move out of her embrace, but her hands had stuck to his shirt, clutching the fabric like it was her last chance at escaping something she was not ready for.

Edward knew the cause for her concern, and so he lingered with her a bit longer. Her heart might have been racing had she still been alive, but it was foolish to think of herself as not _living _in this moment. Everything was thrumming around her; everything was searing and simmering and choking her hold on reality.

She knew what waited for her. She knew _who_ waited for her. She knew what he wanted from her. She even knew what she wanted from him. But she just needed to spend a little more time on the _outside_ of that unpredictable, unventured world. Part of her wanted to make up every excuse just to stay out here for just a second longer, so she wouldn't have to face what lay ahead so soon.

"Carlisle is waiting for you," said Edward.

Her fingers quivered as they clamped stubbornly onto Edward's shoulders, refusing to let him go just yet.

_You'll be back in the morning, won't you? _She asked him in her mind, because she could not bear to hear what her voice might have sounded like.

His breath hitched as he considered her silent question, and she immediately realized he had not been planning on returning so early.

"I'll be back eventually, Esme. I promise." He said the words with a delicate sureness that reminded her heavily of Carlisle. "You'll need time...alone for a while."

Her belly tightened at the prospect of living with Carlisle for possibly a week or more without Edward.

After one last firm embrace, he let her slip from his arms, his lopsided smile full of sympathy and fondness and something else.

"You should go," he suggested with a slight tilt of his head toward the house.

Her hands came together nervously as she watched him back slowly into the forest.

"Tell Carlisle that I love him, will you?" he asked her softly just as the shadows touched his face, and she panicked a little, wondering why he was making this seem like such a _final _goodbye.

Having mercy on her thoughts, Edward smiled a heartfelt smile and shook his head. "I'll see you soon, Esme."

And he was gone.

She stared at the empty spot he had left behind for a moment in stillness, listening to the birds and crickets and the sounds of nightfall creeping in around her. Her hand slid lazily over the archer's board as she passed it, and her steps grew slower instead of faster as she approached the house.

The rapids of her own breath magnified as she stepped inside the foyer, pausing to stare at the hallway mirror, at her eyes that had once looked so foreign, now looking so familiar. It terrified her to think of how drastically her life had changed in just under a year.

There were no sounds coming from Carlisle's study, and for a moment she thought he had already gone upstairs. Then she heard the birds chirping on the East end of the house.

Her footsteps carried her on the familiar path through the hall and into the open doors of his study. The sunset glow warmed the room, making everything look disturbingly surreal to her eyes. He had obliviously left behind a short trail of items for her to follow: his jacket draped on the back of the armchair by the fireplace, his shoes peeking out from under his desk, his pocket book of psalms on the table by the window, his black necktie on the door handle... Outside on the narrow porch, he stood, intently watching the grass below. She saw him from behind where he leaned with his hands on the rail, a subtle tension rippling in his perfectly still back, holding his shoulders at a strain.

Her heart swelled at the sight of him as it always had. Marriage had not changed the happy effects of his presence, and she knew no matter how long they were together, it never would.

She quietly stepped through the open door, a fragrant evening breeze fluttering about her in welcome. She pulled her jacket tighter around her body, feeling the chill permeate her flesh even under the heaps of silky fabric she wore beneath. For a while she stood watching him, just as she had the first time she'd happened across him while he was feeding the birds. She knew he had kept some communion wafers from the church... but she hadn't guessed what he planned to do with them until she saw those birds congregating before him.

His golden eyes were serene, and from her distance she could see that they followed the smallest of the sparrows wherever it hopped, trying to steal a crumb before the crows scooped them all up. She knew Carlisle was on that little bird's side. He was hoping and waiting for it to receive its fair share... but those bigger birds kept getting in its way.

She was mildly astonished to notice how _sad _he looked. He had been so happy, elated even, for their marriage not hours before. Yet now that they _were _married, he was back on his porch, pondering with melancholy eyes, all alone.

Now it was her duty to change that.

Her lips parted to speak to him, and his head tipped up to gaze at her as she approached him as non-invasively as she could. His hands dropped off the railing to rest at his hips so he could turn to face her fully. Feeling satisfied that his attention was hers, she began to relay their son's parting message.

"Edward wanted me to tell you—"

But she was abruptly cut short by a tender rush of cool, sweet moisture, pressing into her unsuspecting lips. The strength of his embrace at once enveloped her intimately between his solid arms, holding her possessively to him as he kissed her with shamelessly needy passion.

Her hands clung to the front of his shirt, shaking with the momentary shock at having been alarmed so pleasantly. She refused to move a single muscle as his lips ardently consumed the warmth hers had to offer. His body was cooler than hers, oddly enough, but she felt strangely thrilled that she had the power to warm _him_ for a change.

His lips were a little lost as he broke the kiss to let their breath catch up with them, shyly lingering on the corner of her mouth before he sighed in surrender and claimed her lips again. She gladly waited for him to take what he needed, and when they finally parted, she could see that his eyes had changed. Not darker, but _deeper_. Like boiling honey. And this change was so distinct and so unfamiliar, it nearly sent her running for cover.

But she could not leave his arms, even he had allowed her.

Carlisle brushed his cheek against hers, nuzzling the side of her neck as he breathed his need into her ear. "What was it Edward wanted you to tell me?" he murmured curiously, not a hint of apology in his tone.

"He wanted me to tell you that he loves you," Esme whispered into his neck. Her lips shyly nibbled at the smooth skin beneath his jaw, and his grip on her waist tightened generously.

Carlisle sighed in relief, the last wisps of tension in his shoulders leaving him as he soaked in the weight of her words. She could hear and feel and taste his happiness, it was so palpable in that moment. She wanted desperately for him to kiss her again, but he gently pulled away to look down into her eyes.

His hands rose up from her waist to hold her face, and her memories flashed back to the days when he used to stare into her eyes like this before giving her permission to hunt... Several times, his lips would part and he would look as if he wanted to say something, but no words were ever born. His jaw firmed with something akin to defiance, a gentle frustration with himself for having no power of articulation when he needed it most.

It was clear that he was aching to say something, but he could not bring himself to say the words. Instead of worrying herself over what they could have been, she let her eyes drift closed, hoping to make it easier on him. Perhaps then, she would hear his voice.

His fingers crept back into her hair, caressing the tresses patiently as he breathed through his parted lips.

He did not speak, even after those several tense moments, and so she timidly filled the silence with another thoughtlessly meaningful "I love you."

Her eyes opened to see if his had changed upon hearing her words. He was staring back at her with all the hard determination of one who was fighting tears. God help her, this expression was so torturously beautiful she wanted to sadden him _even more_. She wanted to push him over that edge she could see glimmering just behind the gloss of his golden gaze.

And so she continued gushing in her whispery voice, "I love you, and Edward loves you. You are so _loved, _Carlisle."

He broke.

He stuttered her name, the glorious pain of gratitude glittering harshly in his eyes. Then he kissed her again uncontrollably, yearning for something that only her lips could give him.

She surrendered herself to the tide of his inhibition, her mind misted by desire and the overwhelming clutch of his scent. She knew she could drown here if she wanted, and she came ever so close to giving into that whim as he resurfaced, pulling her through the waves with him toward the shore. His lips drifted away from hers at the break of the harbor, and she found herself blinking up at him as he whispered something.

"If you would have me, Esme," he murmured as his knuckles tirelessly stroked her velvet cheek. "I shall ask for nothing but your love for as long as we live. Please say you will accept me."

Accept him...

_Had she not already done that? _

Her mind was so hazy, she could scarcely make meaning of his monumental words.

She must have nodded. Or said yes_. _Or agreed _somehow_, in some legible form. Because seconds later, both her feet had parted with the floor, their only farewell a soft scrape of sole against cement. And she was resting in his arms.

He carried her back into the house, never looking anywhere but her face as he helped her deny the wishes of gravity.

He carried her up those stairs, as she had one day dreamed he would. And with every patient step he took heavenward, it was like she was falling in love all over again.

* * *

**We all know what comes next now! You can read Carlisle's POV of this chapter in "Chapter 41: The Last Supper" in Behind Stained Glass.**

**Thank you to everyone who gave me inspiration for this chapter. I loved all of the feedback! **


	63. The Key and the Rose

**Chapter 63:**

**The Key and the Rose**

* * *

He loved her. How and why she knew not, but she knew that he did_._

That was really all that mattered.

Carlisle had kissed her nine times since they'd been married. He had already proved that declaration nine times through those simple touches, making his sincerity manifest, mouth against mouth. It was such a strange practice, one that Esme had never really pondered before he had done it to her. Each time was precious, as much for her as it was for himself. It was an equal need for the other, a balance. A gentle way of forcing her to feel his love for her...if forcing was even a thing Carlisle did.

He wanted her – not merely to possess, but to love, to cherish, to hold and care for forever. This time it _would _be forever.

Esme never remembered enduring a longer trip up the staircase before in her life. She had once dreamed of being carried up the stairs by her good doctor. But now that it was happening to her, she only wanted it to end as soon as possible. It was what lay at the top of those stairs that made the wait seem far too long.

The hallway was dark. So dark it probably would have frightened her if she had been alone. But she would never be alone again.

The lacy ends of her gown whispered against the walls as Carlisle carried her toward the bedroom door. With each step he took, her thrill heightened. He never looked away from her the entire time, as if he couldn't believe he was really carrying a woman to bed with him.

He paused when he reached the door, which was already creaked open. He pushed it open with his back and stepped inside.

Taking in the familiar surroundings, Esme recalled the time she'd first set foot in this room. Carlisle had given her the space to use as her own, to offer her the comfort of having a private place to retreat for the night, though she never needed to sleep. The room was just the same now as it was when she'd first seen it. Same gauzy blue curtains, same thick carpets, same large fireplace with the five ceramic vases on the mantel. But there were several small alterations made to the room that caused it to look different now.

Those five empty vases on top of the fireplace had been filled with five bouquets of flowers. The first was filled with red roses, the second with orange blossoms, the third with wild violets, the fourth with lilies...and the fifth vase was filled with ten paper flowers, made from colored tissue paper. Carlisle was responsible for adding all of those flowers to their vases, but he was most proud of the last bouquet.

Also different was the smattering of nostalgic objects that sat inside the bedside table drawer, along with Carlisle's love letters. Esme left the drawer open so that she would remember each one of those precious pieces from their past together. It had only been a year since they'd started living under the same roof, but it seemed so much longer.

The only other change made to the room was Carlisle's painting of Lake Cordial, now hanging on the wall by the window. Right outside that window, the real Lake Cordial beamed brightly under a full moon, just like the one in the painting. Although God was responsible for making the lake in their backyard, Esme still secretly thought that Carlisle's hand-painted lake was prettier. It brought her some comfort knowing that painting would be there all through the night...while its creator made love to her.

A nervous flutter filled her belly as Carlisle kissed her forehead and set her gently down on the carpet. Esme was suddenly grateful that he hadn't tossed her down on the bed like she used to imagine he would. Somehow, the way he'd set her down on her own two feet was more romantic. She couldn't explain why.

They stood across from each other, staring lovingly into one another's eyes as newlyweds often did. But this was different. The gravity of what she was about to do hit Esme like a bolt of summer lightning, and suddenly the prospect of knowing Carlisle Cullen on a deeper level than anyone else had known him before frightened her.

She wondered guiltily if it were normal for a new wife to have the sudden urge to skip this night altogether.

_But that's all it is, _she tried to remind herself. _A sudden, stupid, senseless urge. The fear would disappear soon. It always did._

It made her feel worse that Carlisle looked perfectly at ease. She found it hard to believe that he could look so calm when he was about to lose his virginity after centuries of waiting. He was about to... _Oh, God. _

_She _was going to be the one who took his virginity.

Esme couldn't say the same for herself, and in a sick sort of way, it gave her a very odd feeling of power over him. She didn't want to take advantage of Carlisle, and she certainly didn't claim to know any more about these kinds of things than he did. He was a practiced doctor, and probably the smartest man in all fifty states. She was obviously the inferior one here... so why didn't she feel that way anymore?

She swallowed hard when she realized Carlisle's fingers were caressing her neck. His thumb absently twirled one of the small pearls on the necklace she was wearing. "You're nervous," he observed in a soft, slightly concerned voice. She could hardly argue with him.

She let out a deep breath and rolled her shoulders back, trying to at least look more confident. "It will pass."

His brow furrowed, and she wanted very much to kiss away the little crinkle in the center of his forehead.

"You aren't alone, Esme." He suddenly looked very bashful as he set his hand against his belly. "When I was carrying you through the hall just now, I felt as if my stomach might burst."

She covered her mouth as a shy giggle escaped. She was momentarily grateful for the small wave of relief, knowing he felt the same. He smiled back at her, now seemingly unembarrassed by her ability to find humor in his plight.

Without thinking, she gently pressed her own hand against his where it rested on his stomach. She stared up at him adoringly, concentrating on nothing but the way his gaze made her feel inside. She tried to lose all thoughts of what would come next, where the night would take them, what she would be expected to do. Instead, she tried to live in the moment.

Holding Esme's hand in place, Carlisle stepped closer and laid an affectionate kiss on the top of her head. "But you know, I am feeling much better now," he whispered into her hair, giving her hand a squeeze. She shivered. Lifting her head, she noticed the sky outside the windows behind him.

"It got dark so quickly," she casually changed the subject, hoping he couldn't hear how her voice was shaking.

Carlisle sighed and looked over his shoulder. "The moon is still very bright."

For some reason, this made Esme even more nervous. _Less chance of hiding with the moonlight flooding their bedroom..._

Laying both his hands on her shoulders, Carlisle was able to immediately draw her gaze to his. Esme swallowed hard, anticipating he was going to lean in for a real kiss this time. But when his lips parted, his only intention was to speak.

"Darling, if you don't mind, I'd like to...prepare some things before...well, we..."

"Prepare?" She must have looked fantastically worried.

"Candles," he whispered hastily, making the word sound suspiciously seductive. "I need to light candles." Although his cheeks were as white as a dove's wing, she could imagine a pink flush filling them from the sheepish way he said it.

Sensing that this was something he preferred to do privately tonight, Esme discreetly excused herself to step out onto the balcony. "Oh, of course," she murmured in understanding. "I'll give you a minute."

Before she could walk past him, he caught her hand, a timid smile on his lips as he touched a grateful kiss to her cheek. On some nights, right after sunset, the sky turned a beautiful shade of pink at dusk. Carlisle's lips were that precise color tonight.

The way he squeezed her hand just before he let it go sent a sizzle of sweet electricity up her arm. She watched over her shoulder as he moved across the room to retrieve the matches, his shadow tall and somber against the rich blue wall. Sometimes it hurt, how lovely he was.

Reluctantly pulling her eyes away from the scene, Esme stepped outside onto the balcony, leaving the door partly open behind her. The evening was insultingly beautiful – more fitting for one of her long lost fantasies, as irony would permit. The sun was a faint magenta bauble, floating in a shallow sea of cool violet mist along the horizon. Above it, the sky was deep and clear, filled with twinkling stars that looked more like aquamarine rhinestones from a distance. From the balcony, she could see the banks of Lake Cordial, lit by the tender gleam of a young moon, and it looked almost as perfect as the very scene Carlisle had painted on the canvas that now hung in their bedroom. Along the perimeter of the lake, the willows wept in silence like they did every other night. But this was _not _every other night.

As she stood on the balcony, Esme could taste the tang of candle flames being lit by gentle hands in the bedroom behind her. Carlisle did not need to insist upon lighting them. Those loyal candles had helped to light his way in his darkest times, and he did not crown them for any other reason than that. They were not decorative tributes to either ambience or atmosphere; neither were they there to serve any superficially romantic purpose, and Esme knew this. Carlisle wanted their glowing presence in any dark room. He wanted them because they brought him comfort and made him feel at ease. They were, after all, holy, as he had claimed so many times before.

Esme was, after every self-assuring word of comfort, concerned about strange little things. Like why Carlisle hadn't speared his finger to the cover of his Bible and claimed their night together would be sinful because they couldn't bear children. Or why he seemed to want those few minutes alone to himself before they shared the room together.

Such thoughts were impossible to shake. She found it infuriating that he was still a separate entity from her, and yet she was terrified at the prospect of being connected to him in a way that was crudely, beautifully physical.

She listened to his bare feet gliding over the carpet, the slip of a match as he struck a flicker of fire, the rhythm of his breath as he took in the candles' smoky kiss. Their scent stirred in with the nude ambrosia of nature, and the heat in Esme's heart rose with the timid flames. There was such peace surrounding her, yet she could feel a simmering anticipation within – an anticipation that began the moment her husband took his first step up the staircase with her in his arms.

She listened as he lit the very last candle. She could almost feel its heat.

His footsteps swiftly moved toward the windows.

She heard the gentle _scrape-swish _of the curtains being closed, and her heart flung itself against her breast. She did not need to look around to know how his hands clutched and pulled the fabric, drawing shade over the glass. She could now imagine his hands, _clutching _and_ pulling _in many a context, none of which concerned window curtains...

His footsteps came closer as he drew the curtains over the next window, then the next, creating a refuge of privacy and darkness.

With her belly pressed hard against the railing, Esme leaned far over the side of the balcony. She tried to distract herself by counting the ripples on the lake, but by the time she reached twenty, she could hear the soft sound of bare male feet approaching the threshold behind her.

And as she stared over her shoulder at her husband, he locked her gaze and held her in a stream of unfathomable fondness. He stood, strong and upright, with one arm resting against the open door. But against his right hip, his hand was curling and twisting in that way she'd never understood to be either a sign of uncertainty or a mere habit. Her gaze dipped to take in the pale shirt and dark pants protecting his body, as the light of the moon made him glisten before her. He did not realize what subtle little emotions coiled inside her as she stared at him. He did not realize how precious he looked to her, with that imperceptible smile on his lips.

She would never dare to name the things she wanted in that moment.

It was so easy for her to see that he wanted the very same things, and this excited her and scared her, in the sweetest of ways.

She turned shyly from him to face the balcony again, then stepped forward and gripped the railing tightly. Her knuckles were always whiter than snow, so he could not see just how tightly she was holding on.

His scent surrounded her – an aroma once soothing and enchanting, now sore and seductive. Her back met with the muscled wall of his chest, and all at once he was closing her in, like a tall, warm cloak behind her. His arms wrapped around her frame, holding her against him, claiming her and protecting her.

This was the place she had always wanted to be. This was the place she had chosen and promised to be for eternity. It was too tight a space. Just the way she wanted it to be.

His hands slid up her forearms, somehow coming to settle around her waist. He kissed her again, his light touch tracing lovely cursive nonsense across her midriff. His lips aligned perfectly with the marks of his bite on her neck, bittersweet and gentle. Painfully so.

A sob broke free this time. His hands clutched hers with concern.

"My love?"

Oh. _His love._

Was it an address to his beloved, or a declaration of that emotion he possessed for her?

Was _that _what she feared, he was asking her. Do you fear _my love?_

"Yes," she could only manage to whisper. She stared out into the evening, knowing nothing worthy was ahead of her because everything worthy was _around _her. _Behind _her.

"Esme."

She could not tell if it was an interrogation this time. She only focused on the slightly peculiar and utterly familiar way he pronounced her name, in the flowery traces of his accent.

_Ess-may._

Gently, he turned her around in his arms, and he stared at her for a long moment. It was somehow both surprising but not, that he appeared unaffected by the pending events of the night. His eyes were just as they always were – wise, trustworthy, serene. Calm and controlled. Like she was just another patient he was preparing to operate on.

She froze in place with her eyes on his, captivated and terrified in the loveliest way. A humid heat filled her with weight from bottom to top, planting her in place.

"Carlisle..."

He smiled, and she saw the entirety of her world in just that one curve of his lips.

"You have never looked more beautiful than you do right now, Esme," he whispered. His voice was like the water of a lake – crystal clear in essence, but darker when it reached greater depths. "Do you know that?"

Because it was something she did not know, Esme slowly shook her head. But she found evidence that this beauty he spoke of was real. She could see the reverence in his eyes as he stared at her, and she stared at him, and they both tried so hard to stare _into _each other. But they knew they were rushing things. Their true union would come in time.

She was overwhelmed, knowing exactly why Carlisle thought she'd never looked more beautiful than she did on this night. Carlisle's hand found hers unexpectedly, and the gravity of his touch danced in her stomach.

She gasped.

The tightness of his grip hurt her.

Physically, _hurt _her.

He loosened his grip in response, a look of astonishment on his handsome face as she rubbed the brief stretch of pain from her hand.

"It hurt," she whispered shamefully. "It hurt when you held my hand."

A wave of realization changed his expression as he stared at his open palm. "It has been over a year since I turned you."

Esme stared blankly up at her husband, refusing to believe he meant what she thought he meant.

His eyes met hers, dark and hot. "You're no longer stronger than I am."

Her eyes widened and her heart dropped. In the back of her mind, she riddled all the implications of what this meant for their night together. Of all the nights for this to happen...

Carlisle stood before her, towering, tall, full-framed, and square-jawed, and Esme stood small, weak, still, and defenseless, expecting her fears to return with a hungry vengeance. But no fear came.

His hand reached out and held hers firmly again, as if something precious were being held between them. This time, the pain felt wonderful. It might have been their love, or it might have just been the world itself, rolling endlessly in the dark little universe between their pressing palms. In the few seconds they stared at each other, the world was turning, seeing sunset and sunrise over and over as they stood still. But the energy between them pulsed with expectation, admonishing them with a voice like a loving mother, _"Go on, then. Take your souls and combine them. I'm waiting ever so patiently..." _

Carlisle's eyes looked almost weary, but beneath their deep golden colors, excitement brewed in silence. As he breathed over her, several wayward strands of her hair fluttered against her forehead, and they loved him so dearly for making them dance.

"I'm not afraid," she whispered to him, betrayed by her trembling, "but I feel..."

He searched her eyes, breathing heavily, waiting anxiously for her next words.

"...worried," she admitted, her lashes wilting in shame. "I don't know why."

"Oh, my dear Esme," he sighed, taking her head between his hands. "Your worries are for naught." His voice was hoarse and quiet, and the words he used sounded several centuries old. "You have nothing to fear," he murmured against her cheek. "Nothing at all... You must trust your heart. Trust my love for you." His fingers slowly swept up and down her throat, relieving the tightness there.

"I trust you," she whispered without hesitation.

With her consent, he leaned close and kissed her. His kiss was confusing and sweet and beautifully disorganized. She could feel all of him in the way his lips touched her, a tender travesty of his boundless affection.

She squirmed with the need to say something, and he released her reluctantly. "Where do we go from here?" she asked him, her voice small and uncertain.

"Wherever you wish to go, Bright Eyes." His words were ragged from their kiss, his hands memorizing her curves through her dress. "I am yours. I will follow you anywhere."

His promise sent a chill straight to her core.

"I feel cold." She shivered in his arms, and his hands tightened around her small waist.

"It is warmer inside." She could hear the invitation in his whisper, could see the promise of heat in his eyes.

She gasped as he took her hand, expecting him to pull her into the bedroom, but instead he placed her palm against his heart.

"There is a fire inside my heart, Esme." He said it like a secret, but she had known this all along.

As she let her hand rest flush against his chest, she knew that the heat she felt was not in her imagination. He spoke the truth.

"I feel it," she whispered.

"There was a time, not very long ago, when I wanted to wash it away," he told her, his husky voice tinted with shame. "But now I want you to kindle this fire, Esme." Her own heart fluttered wildly in reply to the task he had given her. "Will you let it burn as brightly as yours?"

_Oh, if only he knew what she longed to do with this fire._

"Yes. Brighter," she promised, sealing the covenant with a harsh kiss. She kept hold on his lips for as long as he would allow, until he drifted slowly away from their fervent communion, breathless and quivering.

His lips left hers warm and wet with his venom, trailing along her skin to kiss her ear. Her feet felt tingly and weak, growing tired beneath her weight. Shyly, she brushed the front of his chest with one finger as he moved back to see her face.

He must have seen her permission shining in her eyes.

She felt wonderfully lightheaded as he tugged her gently by the wrists, leading her backwards into the dark room.

She did not hear the door close. She did not hear the rustling of fabric as he lifted her hands to the collar of his shirt. But she heard him declaring his love for her with complete clarity. The timbre of his voice was nearly unrecognizable as he whispered tragically gentle words against the shell of her ear.

Out of the corner of her eye, Esme could see the flickering candle flames watching them from every corner of the room and by the waiting bedside. She felt like she was lost in a cruel dream, ready to wake within the next instant. But with every step they took deeper into the room, her dream only became more real.

She watched in wonder as Carlisle lifted the brightest candle by their bedside and held it close to his chin. Never looking away from her eyes, he touched his tongue to the flame, extinguishing it with a venom-cooled kiss. The smoke from the candle smelled disturbingly sweet as he let it fall from his hand with a muffled clatter to the carpet.

Under any other circumstances, Carlisle would never be so careless with one of his candles. For some reason, Esme now found this thrilling.

He pulled her close and kissed her, and she could taste the fire on his tongue.

Her fingers curled around his collar, suddenly frustrated with the fabric. He pulled away, and she pulled him back. He kissed her again.

When she pulled away, he brought her back in earnest. His hands reverently cupped the sides of her face, brought her close and pressed his lips to hers, harder.

There were no rules for what came next, no guidelines to follow when it came to kissing. Every touch of their lips became a deep communication, spontaneous and decisive at once.

Her hands clung to his collar, tugging the folds of cotton apart to reveal the smooth, agonized skin of his throat. Her loving fingers carefully prodded the age-old markings, seeking out his eyes for his unspoken consent. She could see the remaining embers of pain in his gaze when he was reminded of his transformation. This life was not new to him anymore. Humanity was more distant from him than it was from her, yet Carlisle was still so human.

Her hands kept hold on the sides of his collar as he reached up to unhook the golden chain behind his neck. With an insistent touch to his arm, Esme stopped him before he could remove it. If they were wearing their wedding rings through the night, then Carlisle would wear his cross. It was a part of him, and it was beautiful.

He stared at her questioningly, his fingers still hidden behind the back of his neck.

"Keep it," she murmured. With that, she gently kissed the golden cross pendant, pulled his hands out from behind his neck, and looked up at his face.

Carlisle's eyes returned to hers, deep and molten colors, searching, asking, pleading. He lowered his gaze to her fingers, his face filled with expectation.

He expected her to strip him of his modesty.

His hands supportively cupped her elbows, guiding her closer, silently telling her that this was not something shameful. But despite how desperately she wanted it, it still frightened her.

Though Carlisle had taken care to close all of the curtains in their room that evening, many of the windows were too tall to keep all of the moonlight out. Somehow, Esme thought that working in complete darkness would have been far less intimidating than this. The soft blue glow that now filled the room was just bright enough to reveal her trembling, but just dim enough to make every look they exchanged feel twice as intimate.

Esme chewed on her lip as Carlisle lovingly pressed her finger into the little button at the top of his collar. "Go on," he breathed, stroking her knuckles gently in encouragement. When her fingers still did not move, he bowed his head closer to hers and whispered, "I am your husband."

Tremendous heat pooled in her belly as he lifted his head to watch her. She gulped when his hands let go of hers, but she obediently focused on her task and put her fingers to work.

The first button was easy. Slipped right through the slit.

Scars.

The second button was just as swift.

Skin.

The third took just a fraction longer.

More skin.

She opened the fourth without looking, her hands shaking like leaves in the wind. Because he was still watching every move she made with bated breath. Because this was the button he always stopped at...

The fifth button slipped through and out, revealing more of him than she had ever seen before.

She dared to peek.

Her breath caught in her throat.

His breath touched her forehead.

Three more left.

Six.

A smooth arch of thickening muscle took form beneath the shadows and curious moonlight. Her fingers shyly avoided touching it directly.

Seven.

She could see his bellybutton now. It was smaller than she had expected it to be, and somehow seemed more private than it should have. Heat spread over her cheeks when she realized this was one of the only parts of him that had not changed at all from when he was human. She longed to touch it, but there was still one more button waiting for her.

The eighth button was hidden, tucked beneath the waist of Carlisle's pants. Sensing Esme's hesitation, he helped her fingers find it. Together, trembling slightly, they tugged the fabric free and slipped the last button through its hole.

She parted each side of his shirt like curtains, and everything began to take shape before her eyes. From what she could see, his skin was flawless and fascinating, almost paler than hers in the faint moonlight. The candles he had lit on the other side of the room offered little to no light, but even the lack of brightness in their room could not hide the beauty of his body.

Eager to see the rest of what was hidden beneath his shirt, Esme began to push his sleeves down gently, over the length of his arms. His biceps were much larger than she'd thought they would be. She felt a little knot in her stomach as she struggled to peel the clinging cotton sleeves from his muscles.

When those sleeves finally came off his arms, she swallowed hard, and the sound was embarrassingly audible in the quiet room.

His shirt dropped to the floor, and her lower lip dropped with it.

For a moment she forgot that she was looking at Carlisle. The body she saw did not fit with the man she knew him to be. His skin was toned and firm, like smooth white armor, his chest as exquisite as a sculpture. This body was positively imposing; too powerful and too beautiful for a man so humble.

He took her hand in his and pulled it closer to his chest, letting the very tips of her fingers graze his skin. Her throat tightened at how smooth he felt. She watched, fascinated, as he took a breath and released it, and all the subtle creases and bulges of his muscles changed with the tiniest movement. Like his bellybutton, his nipples were also smaller than she thought they would be, and more pink. He looked like a painting in one of the art history books she used to read as a young girl.

Those were the kinds of books she only read while sitting up in a tree, where no one else could see.

Her fingers were still not bold enough to venture far on their own, but they settled timidly beside the shallow pit of his navel. His stomach flinched, going rigid at the first sign of her free touch, then he relaxed when she stroked the skin in a light circle around it. The skin there was so soft it made her want to cry. Guessing this was a sensitive place for him to be touched, she ghosted her fingers down a trail of fair blond hairs that disappeared beneath his trousers.

He gave a little gasp and she pulled her hand away, slowly, unsurely.

Without hesitation, both his hands converged in front of his lap. A surge of excitement filled the air when she heard the clinking of brass. Before she knew it, he had unlatched the buckle of his belt and slowly slipped the leather band all the way through it. The wool clutching his waist loosened, dropping an inch around his hips as he pulled the belt away.

For some reason Esme found it difficult to meet Carlisle's eyes just after she had watched him take his belt off.

A soft, happy sounding hum came from the back of his throat as he let the belt slip from his fingers and fall to the carpet beside his feet. Her stomach tightened when she realized that her turn was next.

The first thing he took away from her was her pearl necklace. He unlatched it without a hitch, and the string of tiny white beads gathered in the palm of his hand. He looked down, rolling them back and forth with his fingers, and she entertained thoughts of how he could use his fingers that way with certain parts of her body.

Distracted by a brief daydream, Esme was relieved not to hear the scattering of pearls all over the floor when she came to her senses. Carlisle instead gently set the necklace down on the nightstand, letting it slither to rest between the candles.

When he turned back to face her, his hands slipped under her arms and skimmed slowly up her back, embracing her. His touch tickled her in a new and wonderful way – a way that did not make her want to giggle or squirm to escape it.

His deft fingers found the tight lacing behind her dress, curiously exploring their way across her covered skin. She felt every little tug and strain as he relieved her of the confining knots. With each prod and pull, she felt the laces loosening more and more until they were all undone.

Her modesty flared when Carlisle threatened to let the protective silk of her dress fall. He caught her telltale flinch and he stopped immediately, holding the laces together with his fingers. He was waiting for her to give him permission.

After a simple incline of her head, he let go.

The slip Esme wore beneath her dress was all but transparent. His fingers stroked her shoulders beneath the thin strands lovingly, patiently, seeking her approval. A faint note of question came from his throat and she shivered. Somehow he knew that this shiver was a good sign.

She stopped breathing as his fingers slid carefully under the straps of her slip and brushed them off her thin shoulders. The cold, helpless rush of nakedness swept through her, followed by a blaze of indecent warmth when she felt Carlisle's eyes on her body. She was beginning to understand what it might have felt like to be Eve in the Garden of Eden.

Bashful instinct overwhelmed her in that moment, with only a thin pair of white bloomers still protecting her, waist to knees. Without thinking, her hands splayed across her chest to protect herself from his eyes. As she stared down at the ground, she noticed his beautiful bare feet on the blue carpet across from hers. In her mind she saw a melancholy flashback of him wading beside her in the lake for the first time. And for a second, she missed the blindness she used to possess; that innocent naïveté when it came to love. She missed that sweet moment they'd shared long before they were aware of the depth of their feelings.

Carlisle's devout whispers reached her ears, and she listened while he wistfully praised her beauty, her willingness to give herself to him. The gravity of the scene hit her like a ray of hot desert sunshine. Here and now, he was not worshipping those gilded gospel books he kept in his study. Here and now, he was worshipping _her_.

Tonight, _she_ was his religion. And he has promised to be so very pious.

"I wish to give you all of myself, Esme," he murmured the words in a precious prayer, trailing a finger over her bare shoulder. "Please tell me you will give all of yourself to me."

"Yes," she responded, her voice shuddering with desire. "I will give you everything, Carlisle. Everything." Her words melted on the tip of his finger as he touched her lip.

"I want to show you so much." His words were soft but loaded with longing. "More than I have ever dreamt of showing anyone else. Even more than I have shown myself."

The sincerity in his voice was palpable, yet it sounded almost like a warning, and it made her tremble.

"I want to see it all," she told him, her voice dark and hungry.

"You will."

The simple promise sparked a sharp jolt in her heart. He wanted to reveal himself to her, and her alone.

Her eyes dilated thirstily, eager to drink every drop of this man into her lungs, into her lap, and ultimately, into her heart. Something changed - something had given her away - and his eyes plummeted to blackness when he caught it, his lashes wilting in repose.

"Oh, Esme... How long have you felt this ache within you, as I have? How long, my love?" He brushed his lips over her cheek and across her forehead, his fingers dipping under her jaw. "We can heal each other, you know... You can heal me, and I will heal you."

Abashed by the unfamiliar sensuality of his words, she turned her face away, her hands still hovering over her breasts.

Tenderly, redeemingly, Carlisle pressed another kiss to her open lips. A rush of something disturbingly unfamiliar surged through her as the tip of his tongue slipped tentatively inside her mouth, like a strange, silken tickle along the inside of her lip. Their tongues touched hesitantly at first, and the feeling was slightly surreal – everything from the unbearably intimate flutter of his eyelashes against her temple, to the unpredictable beating of his breath against her cheek.

Her knees faltered.

Carlisle's hands spanned her waist in support, gently assaulting the bare flesh beneath his palms. The upward path of his hands was discreet and patient, ending only when he had taken both her wrists in his reassuring grip.

Suddenly, she was opening for him all over – yielding and submitting. Her hands fell away from her breasts and her thighs stopped straining to stay together while she stood.

Cool air spread over her bare skin, and she shivered again. Even half naked, Carlisle was still a gentleman. He wrapped her limp body in a warm embrace, holding her firmly against the sculpted planes of his torso. She was surprised once again by how strong he felt. As a whole, his body was stone hard, but there were thrilling little spaces of his skin that felt improperly soft and velvety when they brushed up against her.

Superficially, _this _did not feel like Carlisle.

Carlisle was checks and balances, couth and courtesy, buttoned to the collar, covered.

This was like watching him in the hunt all over again.

But the way he was loving her right now was hardly animalistic. He was gentle, graceful; sensitive but sure. Just like he always had been.

His hands reached forward and grasped her waist on either side, as if he were inviting her to dance. Her breasts rubbed against his naked chest, tickled pleasantly by the dusting of hair on his skin. She let him touch the same places that an evil man once touched, and as the memories welled up inside of her, she tried to remind herself that Carlisle's intention was to heal her, not hurt her.

She gasped a little when the memories became clearer in her mind. Vivid glimpses hit her brain, just like the times she would remember details from the first night she met Carlisle. Only these images were brutal and terrifying, not beautiful and bittersweet.

Her good doctor now stood before her, his handsome face strewn with worry as he looked down and saw the fear in her eyes. His hands tightened around her and drew her closer. Such a simple gesture, yet it held such power. The weight of those bad memories fled her almost instantly, and her body felt wonderfully light.

She was only vaguely aware that her feet no longer touched the floor.

She felt another wave of cold air, his warm breath an anchor against her cheek, his strong arms lowering her down... then she was sinking into a sea of softness.

She watched, wide-eyed as he laid her down reverently in a familiar ocean of blue silk, parting the covers with his arms like the Red Sea. Each movement he made was inexplicably elegant, full of a strange heroism that seemed to jump-start her heart at full speed. He was so intent upon his task, spreading out space for them, giving them more room... for what, she was not quite sure.

Her breath caught as she watched him looming above her, his eyes wild but still so tender, his chest heaving. His wavy blond hair was disheveled, hanging close to his cheeks as he hovered - she had never seen him this way before, the angle from which he faced her was so new. His gaze flickered to her midriff for less than a moment before he was focused back on her face.

She felt the mattress give beneath his weight as he shifted over her body, his eyes blinking in wonder as he came closer to her face. She closed her eyes, anticipating a kiss. Before she knew it, his lips were tugging at hers in earnest.

She couldn't help but gasp when she felt how hard he was. His hips brushed the side of her leg, just once, but she had to wonder if he knew she felt it. As strange as it was for her to feel Carlisle this way, she was almost disappointed when he quickly pulled his hips back.

He searched blindly for her hand between the sheets, and she could feel the caring curl of his fingers around her wrist when he finally found it. She was reminded of the tender way he used to swipe her fingers clean from the scent of blood, the way she had been taunted by his sensual touch, wishing she could feel it all of the time. Now his touch was all hers.

There was a strange and wonderful dualism to this sort of love. Touch by touch, Esme discovered that two opposites may exist at once. She could be cold _and _warm, nervous _and _eager, dreading _and _anticipating. All while Carlisle kissed her.

_Is this the miraculous way in which love is meant to work?_ She wondered to herself. A shy tangle of limbs. Soft, unplanned kisses that happened to land anywhere. Her shoulder blade, the space behind her ear, the curve of her neck, the inside of her wrist, the back of her elbow. It was a thrill to feel each of his kisses on her body, never knowing if it would feel warm or chilly or damp or dry. And each place his lips touched tingled with a glistening awareness, knowing it had just been discovered for the first time by the curious lips of another.

Each time Esme timidly sighed his name, he acknowledged her somehow – with a soft kiss to her chin or a subtle squeeze of her hand. He always let her know that he had heard her, that he was there for her, that it pleased him to hear her sighing for him.

Slowly, he withdrew his lips from their free-flowing stream of kisses, leaving her to float unprotected in the blue silk sheets. He backed away until he was standing up beside the bed, tilting his head down in a self-conscious way as his hand hovered over his lap.

She watched in numb paralysis as his beautiful, lean, white surgeon's fingers moved to deftly unhitch the fastens of his trousers.

_Click. Snap. Click. Snap._

The sound was both beautiful and mildly terrifying.

With little warning besides the halt in his breathing, he drew back the downy fabric with aching slowness and revealed himself to her. Her eyes struggled to stare anywhere but the center of his lap. Frantically, her gaze followed the swift slide of his own hands as he dragged his trousers past taut, smooth thighs, sturdy calves, rendered ankles, squared feet.

At the end of the teasing descent, he stepped away from his discarded clothes and straightened his back, standing at his full height. Breathing deeply, he closed his eyes for a long moment, allowing her to silently swallow the sight of his nude body.

He was...magnificent.

Her heart was stirred by the realness of his presence, the heaviness of his every limb, the mass of his entire being as he stood before her, showing no signs of intimidation to her wide-eyed gaze. He somehow looked much larger in stature when he was undressed, quite a contrast to how she usually felt much smaller when she was not wearing clothes. The moon highlighted the most beautiful parts of him, each pale blue beam reaching out to touch his shoulder, his hip, the side of his face. But unlike the moon, Esme could only bear to look at so much of him at once.

She suddenly felt like a blushing schoolgirl who had accidentally stumbled upon a statue of a nude god in a museum. Her eyes would only dip so far down the length of him before frantically finding his face again. Carlisle's body was foreign and exquisite to her curious eyes, and though his willingness to display himself so boldly made her nervous, her fingers privately itched to explore every inch he revealed to her. Overwhelmed by the sight of him, her hands shook as she pulled the sheet up to her chin and cowered slightly into the safe shadows of the canopy bed.

His stance was confident, but not like that of a soldier preparing for battle. There was a simple grace about him, a humble strength he kept hidden beneath his heartbreakingly perfect physique. In this moment, he was savoring his vulnerability before her, accepting it as something good and not something to be ashamed of. The expression on his face was peaceful and warm, his arms hanging contentedly at his sides, his breathing steady.

It did not strike her until then how big a step this was for Carlisle, how brave he was for volunteering himself to be the first to stand utterly naked before the other. What was more, he had never shown himself to _anyone _in this way before. It was entirely new for him, and yet he seemed to be wholly at peace with it. If he _was _feeling nervous at all, he did not show it.

His eyes opened at long last, staring at the carpet first before they slowly rose to meet her gaze. There was a flinch of concern in his face, as if he feared she would be distressed by the sight of him unclothed.

Her eyes fluttered weakly as he stared at her with an unspoken question etched into his brow. It took him just a few seconds to realize that her reaction, though flustered, was not one caused by distress.

His lips twitched into what looked almost like a very small smile, and that was when it became too much for her. She held so tightly to the sheet that her fingers nearly tore through it. She turned her head and looked away from him, upset and ashamed by her embarrassment.

She heard him take one step closer to her on the carpet, then another, and another. Inspired by his courage, she caught a glimpse of him as he stood directly in front of her, his hand barely able to hide the evidence of his arousal. She did not know whether he covered himself out of shyness or because he could sense her discomfort at seeing that part of him exposed.

Either way, it made her cheeks feel like they were on fire. And she hadn't even looked at him properly yet.

It was hard for Esme not to feel slight disappointment in her reaction. She had not expected to feel this way at all when the time came. Perhaps foolishly, she thought that _she _would be the confident one after the curtains were closed. Despite their inclinations to believe the opposite, she secretly believed that _she _would be the one to guide Carlisle through this part.

She thought she had successfully buried all the fears from her past, but clearly this was not the case.

"It's all right, Esme," Carlisle murmured, his voice familiar enough that it brought her a bit of comfort. She reluctantly let him pry the corner of the sheet away from her fingers. _No more hiding_, she reminded herself. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to look up at him.

His face was calm and careful, but she could see that his eyes were pooling with conflict. She opened her mouth to ask what came next, but he was already one step ahead of her.

Without warning, his hand moved away from his lap, and she squirmed, trying desperately not to stare. Suddenly he was bending down, his hands on her hips, bringing her closer to the edge of the bed. Once her legs were hanging over the side, he knelt down in front of her, hands poised on the waist of her bloomers. She did not need to question him to know what his next intentions were.

His lips parted ever so slightly, his eyes widened by a margin, his fingers curled suggestively into her waistband. His signals could not have been clearer.

But he still needed her permission.

Bracing herself for what was to come, Esme placed her own hands above Carlisle's and guided her bloomers down past her thighs. She paused, letting her breath catch up with her before she inched the soft white fabric further over her knees. Her fingers let go halfway, entrusting her husband to do the rest. With infinite gentleness, the kind doctor finished undressing his timid wife.

She watched in awe as her last insignificant garments gathered around his knee on the carpet. Her legs felt chilly as they hung limply over the edge of the mattress, but that quickly changed as Carlisle grasped her calves in his warm hands. He ran his palms up the length of her legs and down again, his fingers circling her ankles. His eyes were full of fascination and hunger as he stared at her bare skin. He leaned in slowly to kiss each of her kneecaps before he raised himself up off the carpet.

She always forgot how long his legs really were until he was standing up straight in front of her. Without the barrier of clothing, his limbs stretched on and on, inches upon inches of snow white skin, enhanced by her imagination. The muscles in his thighs looked fuller when he was lifting himself off the ground, as did many other parts...

Instead of squeezing her eyes shut, she shifted her gaze to his face and made it stay there. He stared at her in breathless admiration, his lips moving silently as if he were too shy to speak the words that were in his thoughts. Finally he took her shoulders in his hands and pulled her up to stand before him.

If she had thought dancing with him made her feel small, it was nothing compared to how small she felt now. Esme was suddenly fully aware of her nakedness as her bottom left the sheets. Her legs were so wobbly that Carlisle had to keep holding her to prevent her from falling back onto the bed.

Unexpectedly, he took one step back, still holding her steady with one hand on her waist. And they stood, stark naked before one another, with nothing more than a beam of insufficient moonlight and a few flickering candles to illuminate their skin.

If someone had told her only one year ago that she would someday find herself in this very position with Carlisle Cullen, Esme never would have believed them.

She could sense his wonder as he stared at her; the dark, scandalous pressure of his eyes as they followed the curving lines of her nude body. As embarrassing as she found her nudity, there was something exhilarating and even enticing about being exposed to a man with nowhere to hide. She felt desirable under his heavily lidded gaze, as if she were some fantastic mystery he was attempting to piece together.

She knew Carlisle well enough to read his expressions almost flawlessly. She could tell when he was aching to know more about something, and right now he wore that very look on his face. It was the look he usually had when he opened a new book or stumbled upon one of her paintings. It was an insatiable thirst for knowledge, a disoriented need to explore, a heady desire to _know _and _understand _and _feel _and _experience. _Though she was quite literally bare before him, he stared at her like she was something forbidden.

And she enjoyed it.

Feeling somewhat empowered by his reaction, Esme took advantage of Carlisle's awestruck stillness and reached up to stroke his hard cheek with the backs of her fingers. Her touch seemed to awaken him, and he sucked in a breath, his golden eyes fully dilated.

If it was not just her imagination, she could have sworn she felt even more heat coming off of his body.

Carefully, he reached up and caught her fingers while she was caressing his cheek. She stopped, staring at him curiously as he bent down to kiss her forehead. The warmth from his body came in gentle, fragrant waves, seeping through her from all around. He was so close to her, close enough that their bodies would brush against each other if she moved an inch or two nearer. But her feet were locked in place on the carpet.

She clutched at his hand with all her might, hanging onto him like she would if she were dangling over a ravine. His free hand swept up her waist, roamed the dips of her back, explored the length of her arms, and finally crept beneath her hair to stroke the nape of her neck. His breath fanned over her weak eyelids, and she soaked in his closeness.

But they were still not close enough.

Carlisle gave her hand a tender tug, a silent suggestion that they swim together in their sea of silk. Esme watched in fascination as he reclined with ethereal grace into the covers beside her, looking something like an angel at rest in a cloud, with the golden glint of the cross around his neck. One thin violet sheet rested languidly across his hips, preserving his modesty – and she knew it had found its place there by way of strategy rather than happenstance. She could see the way his hand kept guard by his hips, prepared to save the silk if it should slip. But she believed his wish was simply not to overwhelm her.

Carlisle reached for his other half in quiet desperation, encouraging her to settle between his arms. Shyly, Esme fought the gentle current of the silk sheets to swim into his waiting embrace. Sweeping the sheets up in his strong hand, he covered both their bodies from the peeking moonlight. As his hands slid soothingly around her back, their bodies came a little bit closer, touching only where their arms were linked above the quilts, but not flush against one another. Not yet.

Her hands came up to frame his face adoringly, feather-tracing his blond sideburns, weaving through the soft golden locks around his head and along the back of his neck. He looked so real like this – and he _felt _so real. This close, where she could touch him however she wished, and feel his breath on her face, and see the emotions swirling in his eyes. His head was warm between her hands, and his look of desperation melted away with her touch, replaced by a breathless half-smile. The tip of her index finger shyly filled the tiny dimple on his left cheek, her eyes coming to rest on the charming curve of his lips.

He blinked once, reading her desires, and his eyes lowered to her mouth, tenderly focused as he leaned in.

Even his lips seemed to be growing stronger by the second.

They were in the twenties now. At this rate they would likely reach the thirties by the end of the night. A thrill shot up Esme's spine as she thought of how many kisses they would share by the next year, and the year after that, and the decade after that.

Thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands... They had eternity. And this night was only the _beginning_ of eternity.

She was astonished by his kisses. Not only could she feel the gentle slip of his lips against hers, she could feel everything he had ever said to her, done for her, and sacrificed for her. It was thrilling to know that every precious gift he had given her was safe inside her bedside drawer as they made love. And here on this bed he was prepared to give her yet another gift... the most generous gift he has ever dared to give her.

* * *

**You can read this first half of the wedding night from Carlisle's POV in Behind Stained Glass, Chapter 42: "The Source of the Spark." **


	64. The World Unlocked

**Chapter 64:**

**The World Unlocked**

* * *

Despite the piercing realness of it all, most of it still felt like a dream.

She kissed him back even more soundly, her fingers making little twisting tangles in his warm blond hair. Their clasping lips parted with a sound so lovely and faint and moist, and Carlisle's lips descended upon Esme's shoulder. He left a dusting of ardent kisses along her collarbone, and she felt all the warmth of the earth rush to wherever his lips touched.

His kisses were slow and concentrated; with each tender press of his lips, he savored and tasted and discovered. Esme's mind was blissfully lost by the time Carlisle raised his head to stare down at her. His eyes glinted hungrily, pleased that he had rendered her so defenseless. She did not retaliate when he gently pulled the sheet away from her chest.

His face changed, like sunrise to sunset, when he took in the sight of her fully naked breasts. When he opened his lips ever so slightly, she could see the tip of his pink tongue glistening timidly in the shadow. She shivered in excitement, raising her body suggestively toward him.

His lips opened a tiny bit wider as he released a gasping breath, his fingers hovering hesitantly over her nude torso. She whined softly, trying to show him how much she needed him to touch her without saying the words. Their eyes locked, and he pieced together her message.

The tips of his long, masculine fingers landed, one by one, on her right breast. Esme arched helplessly into the curve of her doctor's hand, inspired by the surge of erotic energy that traveled through her at his first innocent touch. His lips were still open, his breathing deep, and the muscles in his arms were bulging with the strain to hold his body above her. He stared at her for a long while, fascinated, moving his fingers across her breasts with delicate care. Under his smoldering gaze, Esme felt exotic and beautiful; precious. Carlisle had never before seen a woman this way, offering herself so sexually to him. Esme was certain the only times he had touched a woman were clinical and never purely passionate.

She was giving him a chance to explore what had always been forbidden to him.

He hummed low in his throat as his fingers traced one small pink nipple, and Esme bit hard into her lower lip, trying to contain her moans of pleasure. The longer he touched her, the bolder his caresses became, and the harder it was to hide her reactions. By the time his fingers began to gently grasp at her nipples, her entire body was quaking.

His eyes darkened as he finally bent his neck, lowering his head to her chest.

Tenderly, he cupped the side of her breast in his hand like he would the side of her face. His cheek first grazed softly against her sensitive flesh, and she gasped as his lips swiftly consumed the aching peak of her breast. Like a rosebud in reverse it was, constricting shyly in the wet warmth of his gentle mouth. The feeling was so foreign, so strange and exciting, like nothing she had ever felt before. She had imagined many times what these kinds of touches would feel like, but this was so far beyond anything her mind could conjure. The unpredictability was what made it magical. Not knowing which direction his tongue would flick next, unaware of how soft or strong his next kiss would be. She felt hot and flushed as he pleasured her with his mouth, almost to the point where it was uncomfortable. But the thought of him ever stopping made her weep.

The light, cool weight of the tiny cross around his neck dropped between her breasts, striking her skin unpredictably as he moved above her. Her fingers dragged languorously across the back of his neck as he sipped desperately at her soft flesh, letting his breath heat the moist trail of his venom.

The tickling of his nimble tongue darted across her clavicle until she whimpered loudly from the excessive attention. His head whipped up in concern, and Esme suddenly felt embarrassed by failing to censor her reaction. "Have I gone too far?" he whispered, the sound of teardrops in his voice.

Unable to meet his eyes, she shook her head against the pillow and sighed in defeat, uncertain why these feelings of extreme pleasure still caused her shame. She wished for some way to tell Carlisle this, but alas, words failed her. He was too good, too wholesome in his thoughts to see past her shyness at the indecencies she hid within.

With a final, apologetic kiss to the base of her throat, Carlisle eased himself away from Esme's body and reclined beside her again, holding the sheet protectively over his lap in the same way she discreetly kept her own flesh covered whenever she could.

Though it was painfully clear from their body language that they were both still shy, their eyes told a vastly different story. Esme was sure that if Carlisle looked deeply enough into her eyes, he could see that, against her natural trepidation, _she wanted him_. She wanted him to crush her beneath his weight; she wondered guiltily what it would feel like when he was finally thrusting into her with his beautiful, muscular body.

But right now, he was utterly still on their bed; almost peaceful. She could sense from his stillness that he wanted her to touch him, but she still hadn't the courage to let her fingers reign over her shyness. She did not know how to even begin exploring the fascinating overabundance of angles and crevices that made up his body. She wished to touch every part of him at once, yet she feared touching him at all.

"Why is there fear in your eyes?" he suddenly asked, suspicion and hurt evident in his voice. Esme's heart fell cold with dread. She should have known it was useless to try and hide her feelings from him.

"I'm not afraid of _you_," she defended weakly, her lip trembling as she tried to force out the words. "It's just..."

His eyes blazed with understanding. "Memories," he guessed, his voice soft but sure.

She nodded, letting out a long breath of relief. She took the faintest bit of comfort in how well he knew her.

He held the silk sheet closer against his lap as he sat up. His hair was tousled and his eyes looked weary, but his focus on her was disconcertingly intense. "If you feel like I am rushing you, Esme, you _must _tell me."

"But I don't feel that way at all," she murmured, pressing her hand adamantly against his chest.

He cocked his head in question, his eyes seeking, pleading. A stray lock of golden hair tumbled into his forehead, and it distracted her for a moment before she tried vainly to put everything into words.

"I feel so many things, so many feelings I can't explain. They confuse me—but in a good way—I suppose...and..."

"Everything is new to you," he finished gently. He shifted on the bed, reaching over to clasp her elbow in his warm hand. "I've told you, it is the same for me, Esme."

She stared down at his hand in wonder, comparing his tender touch to the rough hands of the man she used to call husband. Things she never thought she would remember – terrible, disturbing things – were creating a rift between her heart and her mind. The thought that these stubborn memories could ruin this night, not only for her, but for Carlisle, made her want to cry.

"Your touch is...so different than—" She halted, unable to say it out loud. Comparing Carlisle with that monstrous man from her former life seemed sinful. But Carlisle knew what she had intended to say.

He was clearly upset – not by the comment itself, but by the direction their conversation had taken – and this made her feel awful. He sat up straighter and moved away from her, toward the edge of the bed where several melting candles stood on her nightstand. He leaned across the bed as he shifted his weight, exposing two prominent half-moon shaped dimples on either curve of his buttocks. Esme flinched at the lovely glimpse, surprised at how strong her urge to touch him became in that brief moment. Situating his large body against the headboard, he reached for one of the only two candles that were still lit and slid it closer to the bed, taking refuge in its humble golden glow. His left hand settled on the hard wood surface of her nightstand, one finger absently tracing the droplets of wax that wept down the side of the candle.

Her heart practically shattered. "Carlisle, I'm so sorry." She offered a quivering apology, her hand reaching out pitifully across the quilts to brush her fingers against his back.

"No," he said, his voice low and brooding. "You have nothing to be sorry for." He turned to look at her, the candlelight playing on his face. He looked so young, his lips so full, his eyes fervent and glistening. "I want this night to be perfect for you, and if that means we do not go any further than this, I will gladly accept that as your wish."

She could see the deep regret in his expression, and it made her heart all the more indignant. She sat up in the bed beside him, clutching the covers to her chest. From the new angle she could see the enticing dip of his bare back where it curved into a firm, round bottom. The sheet he held in his lap was not wide enough to cover the magnificent albeit scant view she had of his backside. Her throat tightened up as her eyes wandered across his taut and supple hind muscles.

"I never said I wanted to stop," she uttered breathlessly.

Carlisle's face changed like a blooming flower, revealing layers of hidden emotions that confused her as much as they thrilled her. He reached over for her, and his fingertips brushed her cheek, so cautiously, as if he were checking to see if wet paint had dried.

"I know what he put you through," her kind doctor rasped, his quiet voice loaded with passion, inspired by anger. His eyes looked like hot coals in the light of the candle. "And Esme, I promise, I _swear _to you now, I would never—"

"I know." She nodded quickly, interrupting him before he could say anything more. His uncharacteristic intensity was beginning to unsettle her. "I know, Carlisle." She took his hand and rubbed his fingers, soothing his spark of shuddering fury.

She watched, fascinated, as the flare slowly dimmed from his eyes. He closed his eyes and breathed long and deep while she caressed him to contentment. When his eyes finally opened, they were all but glowing with reverent adoration. "I love you," he declared, his voice as raw and bright as the candlelight. "So much, Esme..." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his hand curl and tighten on the sheet in his lap.

Despite the flutter in her belly, she managed to reply, "I love you just as much."

With the timidity of a curious child, she brought her hand to his shoulder, precariously petting the smooth skin there. He made a happy noise in the back of his throat, and her confidence swelled.

The slow build of confidence encouraged her touch to migrate lower, down the heavy muscles in his arms. Her thumb lingered to stroke the soft inside of his elbow, and he watched her fingers as they slowly ventured the rest of the way down the underside of his forearm. She delighted in every part of him that she allowed herself to touch, marveling at how every part was so strong, so impressive, such a contrast to her own body.

When she reached the end of her journey, she took his hand in hers and placed a circlet of chaste kisses around his wrist, feeling warm with his intense eyes on her. With care, she laid his hand to rest in the covers by his side, and tentatively pressed her palm to the place where she should have felt his heartbeat. Savoring the shift in power, she gently pushed him down until his head was nestled in the pillows.

He stared up at her longingly, eyes flickering over her face as though lost in a silent search for something he had yet to find. "Are you sure?" he rasped. Her lips parted in anticipation when she felt her hand being lifted from his heart.

"Yes," she replied, surprised by the genuine conviction in her voice. "I want to touch you."

Wild adoration filled his eyes as he carried her hand down, over landscapes of lily white skin. He looked so perfect, laid out before her, his chest exposed like a broad, sturdy white canvas just waiting to be painted with caresses. The sheet still lay over his waist, but being as thin as it was, it did a poor job of hiding what she knew hid beneath. Trying not to look was almost impossible now.

In a slight panic, Esme accidentally brushed the sheet with her fingers, and the flimsy fabric threatened her with a slip. She swallowed hard and tried to gather grips on her confidence. Her palm left a tentative trail over the sleek angle of his hip, and his responsive shudder inspired the same reaction in her.

He made a small noise in the back of his throat again, but instead of sounding pleased, this time she thought she could hear a quiet note of frustration. The moment she tried to pull her hand away, he helped her again, guiding her uncertain fingertips over the beveled divots and muscles of his sculpted stomach. With gentle, patient strokes, he showed her how he liked to be touched. Her belly tightened when he guided her fingers lower and lower with every pass, silently telling her that she was all too welcome to continue her journey beneath the sheet.

And a tempting offer it was. He was an exquisite vision to behold, his body cocooned by candlelight, his lap concealed by silk.

Her gaze passed hungrily across his hips, for the first time noticing how broad they were compared to hers, and again how endearingly small his bellybutton was for a man of such impressive stature. His body shared so many similarities with the statues in her art history books. The smooth, even texture of his skin. The firm, squared angles of his hipbones. The softly chiseled belt of Adonis that stretched across his abdomen, and the gorgeous clump of muscle God had packed just above his pubic bone.

Esme squeezed her legs together discreetly beneath the covers, trying in vain to deny the first tickle of moisture between her thighs. Her fingers lingered shakily along Carlisle's intimidating stomach muscles, carefully avoiding that glaring convergence he wordlessly begged her to touch. Noticing her uncertainty, he abandoned her hand for one frightening moment to clasp the corner of the sheet that veiled the lower half of his body from view. She knew there was nothing she could do to stop him from pulling that sheet away. The flame of the candle shimmered in his eyes as he stared at her, unwavering with conviction. Her heart quaked in protest as Carlisle gathered the fabric aside, inch by inch, his fingers grasping, pulling, tugging with aching slowness. Then she blinked, and the sheet was gone.

Feeling somewhat ridiculous, she still tried not to acknowledge the shamelessly bold evidence of his masculinity. Her shy eyes fluttered away from that one gorgeously prominent part of him that clearly ached for her attention. His lungs drank in copious breaths of air, his stomach sinking with every exhale and raising proudly with every inhale while she watched meekly, clutching the quilt tightly against her chest.

In an instant, her entire impression of him had changed. He languidly settled back, looking like a spoiled young prince against the lavish pillows, hiding nothing from her. Unable to resist the forbidden, her gaze gave in to temptation and fell below his waist. There he was, in all his glory, swollen and upright with only one intention...longing to be linked with a woman. With every breath he took, it seemed a heavier load for him to bear. Moonlight and candlelight pooled in his lap, painting him generously in glowing tones of silver and gold. Esme blamed the artist in her for not being able to look away.

Something in the very center of her body was searing, begging for his touch, though she believed it was too far inside of her for him to reach...

But as he shifted his hips and offered her a fuller view of his endowments, she thought perhaps not.

She didn't mean to whimper out loud.

Embarrassed by her reaction, Esme hastily pulled the sheet up to cover her mouth. She couldn't bear to see Carlisle's expression. Gently but surely, he reached up to fold her hand securely within his own.

"Why must you hide yourself from me?" he asked, his voice husky with disbelief. "You are too beautiful to hide."

Under his spell, she let go of the sheet, and they both watched as it dropped helplessly to her lap. She shivered as the cool air flushed her bare skin.

"Please don't be afraid," he whispered, almost urgently.

Curious, she chanced a peek at his face. His eyes were deep, like a forest of yellow trees glowing gold under a vibrant autumn sunrise. She could lose her way if she looked too long...

"I'm not afraid." And to some degree, she meant it.

Having the confirmation he needed, he linked their hands and guided her closer to his body. Her fingers squirmed in protest, and he paused, concerned. "Tell me to stop, and I will." His voice was ragged, trying his very hardest to sound sincere.

She didn't have the heart to tell him to stop now. His eyes were bold and bright, and his lips were flushed as he brought her hand inches closer. His breaths became shorter and shorter with every second he prolonged the inevitable collision of her fingers with his sex.

Without the strength to resist, she let him arrange her dainty fingers around the dense length of his arousal, showing her how to touch him, how to love him. He closed his eyes and murmured her name in two broken syllables, as if lost in a dream.

The permanent ice of her cheeks melted beneath a blush she knew could no longer be imaginary, a tangible heat bursting from an intolerable intimacy she had not even been brave enough to imagine before. The searing sensation she felt just moments ago was spreading all across her body, simmering beneath her skin.

The action he sought to complete was simple enough – to set each finger of her hand in its proper place so that she could learn. That was all he was doing. He was...teaching her.

But this time, he was not teaching her the proper way to hold a bow and arrow.

Then again, it was not so different. At first touch, this part of him seemed more like a weapon than a means for pleasure. He was so distressingly _hard_ – hard enough to crack stone – she could only imagine that he would injure her with even the slightest contact.

Until her fingers started moving.

Under his guiding hand, she felt him the way he was meant to be felt. His skin had the texture of rose petals as she caressed him, pliant yet taut, only seeming to become softer with each pass of her fingers. Her stomach twisted when she felt how warm he was, and her heart caught fire when he stiffened further, whispering her name in an unrecognizable voice.

She could not tell if the expression he wore was one of tranquility or pleasure or something else entirely. All she knew was she had never seen this particular expression on Carlisle's face before. She hadn't thought he could break the boundary of his own beauty any more than he already had.

She was foolish for believing so.

As he stared at her hand in his, it was as if he were peeking around the corner of a door he had never ventured through before. His expression was awe-filled, his lips slightly parted, his eyes distant and heavy with wonder. His fingers were painfully patient as they guided hers over his skin. But she couldn't help flinching when he encouraged greater pressure, squeezing his hand suggestively around hers.

He gasped, she hiccupped in shock, and he yanked his hand away.

But hers was still there. Alone. Left to touch him all on her own.

She wasn't ready for it, as much as she wished she was. The assuredness she coveted would likely only come with an abundance of time and practice. But this was fine, it was expected – beautiful, even. Her mind swam in a strange, dim pink fog, exhilarated at the notion that she was bringing him even the tiniest bit of pleasure. Yet, at the same time, she was terrified that the fragile state of his pending climax depended on her every move. And she was still so unsure of how to touch him.

He felt so_...strange_ beneath her fingertips. Burnished, immaculate, warm, thrumming. Like alabaster after hours in the sun. Like marble that was slowly beginning to melt. Such beautiful, exquisite, provocative _strangeness_. She could not even imagine how he believed he would fit within her, how he wished to fill her completely. It was delightfully mortifying to think about.

This was all for her. Everything was for her. And it was far too much. She would have settled for so much less – in a way, she _wanted_ less – but God had blessed Carlisle with more to give. As his wife, Esme had no choice but to accept it.

Her fingers reached a startled pause between her careful caresses, hesitant in their pressure despite knowing he could surely withstand far more. He _wanted _far more. He was pleading her with the darkness of his eyes, with the strain of every muscle. And so she had to give this to him.

She allowed her fingers to delicately tighten their hold on him, and suddenly the tip of his sex birthed a tiny pearl of venom. It slowly slipped down his length, like a dewdrop falling down the stem of a flower. Like a droplet of wax melting down the side of a candle. The sweet sting of his scent clutched something so far inside of her, she could not place the source of the ache. She tucked her bottom lip shyly beneath her teeth and closed her eyes, tilting her face away.

Having sympathy on her bashfulness, he mercifully guided her hand away and kissed each one of her trembling fingers in turn. With each peck of his lips on her knuckles, he assured her without a word that, despite her doubt, her touch had been just as adequate in its timid innocence as even the most experienced hand could have been.

His strong arms outstretched for her like rays of pale sunshine. He embraced her closer this time; close enough that she could feel all of him, every velvet inch brushing up against her. The firm press of his arousal against her belly sent a smooth shock of heat through her, pulling a fragile gasp from the depths of her throat.

He knew the cause of her hesitation, however delicate it was. She could see it in his eyes. He was pleased, but only the very depths of his gaze revealed this. More of him was trembling. More of him was just as enthralled by this frightful uncertainty as she was.

He looked so vulnerable, splayed out beneath her on the bed. His head fell against the pillow, his strong neck stretching back as he made soft whimpering sounds. He seemed to be struggling with something, something she did not understand.

Hoping to soothe him, she found her favorite place just beneath his bellybutton and caressed his velvet skin with gentle fingers. She hadn't expected him to grit his teeth in response.

Esme paused in concern, studying her husband's face as he tried to rasp out her name. His eyes fluttered in weary panic, a look of pure helplessness shining in his gaze. Blindly, he reached down to where her hand was, trying to find it. She wondered why until she realized he wanted her to take her hand away.

When he finally found her hand, he gripped it urgently, attempting to push it aside. But he didn't make it in time.

His hips bucked up from the mattress with a choking gasp, and without warning, he lost all control. Every muscle in his body shuddered so hard it shook the bed, his face contorting in an agonized fit of pleasure. Esme watched in numb wonder as Carlisle became a panting mess, releasing streams of liquid fire into her limp hand.

His venom pooled within the shallow creases etched across his stomach, dripping down his thighs in shining streaks. For a few moments he was so utterly lost, so consumed by his pleasure that he did not seem to care or notice that he had spilled himself everywhere.

Tipping her cupped hand over, Esme watched his release flow between her fingers like silver milk in the moonlight. A shudder ran through her body, chasing the ridiculous fear that what coated her fingers could somehow harm her. She had always believed that anything that came from Carlisle was perfect and good, but this... this was entirely foreign to her.

She almost wished he would remain this way, limp and defenseless, spent from the power of what had just happened to him. He looked so blissful for those few precious seconds that followed the accident, his hand curled against his lap, body trembling, strength drained. His head lolled from side to side, loose and lazy, and he was breathing as if he'd just swam the length of the Pacific Ocean. It was a fascinating sight, but only until he opened his eyes.

What she saw in his eyes confused her. He looked upon her with an almost forceful adoration, and love – there was always love in his gaze. But what frightened her was the way his gaze had changed. Instead of looking at her like his sweet, beautiful, innocent farm girl, he was looking at her the way a slave looks up to his master – with dark admiration, powerlessness, and even a tiny bit of fear.

When Esme first saw this look in Carlisle's eyes, she didn't like it.

Slowly, everything seemed to dawn on him. She could see that he was embarrassed, but only slightly so, as if he'd expected that this would happen. Without a single word, he apologized. Profusely. He said nothing; he didn't even move. But she knew he was sorry for what had just happened.

She was at first inclined to say she shared his sentiments, but this night was not meant to be perfect. This night was a time for them to learn together, to grow and understand each other, body and soul, in a way they never had before.

Esme looked down at her glistening fingers, uncertain of what to do and hating her uncertainty. She then looked to her husband in desperation, only to find his eyes were just as desperate.

Despite their surgical skill, his fingers were shaking as they cradled her cheek. "Are you...?" The pair of husky words drifted away from him. Words or no words, she knew what he was asking.

_Are you all right? Are you willing to forgive me? Are you still mine? _

All it took was one moment for their eyes to meet, and he had his answers.

She heard his breath catch as he scooped her body against his, plunging into the deep blue quilts. Contrary to her first impression, his release seemed to have empowered him, renewing his strength by which to attend to her needs. For a while they were lost at sea together, kindling a fragile fire between their locked lips. His kisses were magnificent - firm, hot, patient... She could feel him everywhere at once, bathing her with his body heat, and it almost frightened her. She was losing her senses, slowly but surely, unable to tell if this hand or that foot or those fingers belonged to her or him.

They caught the taunting taste of singularity in that moment, and frantically, they tried to grasp it before they were ready. She could feel Carlisle's voice, asking in so many senseless sounds, _"Could you feel it, too? That fleeting instant of being one?"_

The sensation came and went, tangling and unwinding, teasing them, testing them as they tried to keep up with it. There was never a moment where Esme felt she could do nothing. There was always something begging for her touch, something she felt the need to do to this man, however brash it might seem.

Her fingers slipped over the smooth curves of his shoulders to rest against either side of his neck. Fascinatingly, her touch made him tremble, and this gave her a flash of fleeting empowerment. His eyes were like deep coppery stars under her shadow as she lifted herself over him. Lying beneath her once again, the vulnerability in his trusting gaze gave Esme a calming, feminine power from a dark place within. His lips parted as she touched the corner of his mouth with her thumb, holding his cheek with a single supportive palm. He nudged his face against her hand, eyes closed at the sensation of her touch.

His grasp on her waist tightened appreciatively as she bowed her head over his chest, marking his midriff with coy kisses, leaving behind crystal freckles of venom on his flesh. She left one tiny kiss on his hip, and it was an orphan, damp and alone, because her lips were not yet brave enough to travel any further. Still, his pale skin was all but opalescent by the time she finally lifted her lips, and if she had no foolish imagination, his eyes were just as moist.

It was the look in Carlisle's eyes then that made Esme aware of her true purpose as his wife. She was _loving _him. The ache in his familiar gaze was a profound reminder that he had never been loved this way before. For so long he had stared at her with that very same gaze, and she had tragically never recognized the love he had _for her; _that it had been there all along. For years he had never understood how much _he_ _deserved _to be loved this way – physically.

It did not matter how she showed her love for him; as the night would surely teach her, there were countless ways to do that. She could love him in any way she knew how, in any way she wanted. And as her husband, he would do the same for her.

With a gentle smile of understanding, she leaned down to nuzzle the center of his throat, christening each violent scar with a trinity of tender kisses. His chest quivered slightly as she lingered on the last rosy crescent, and the sudden force of his hands against her lower back spurred a strange, pulsing thirst in her lap. She carried her kisses back to the smooth column of his neck, and her lips rippled when he swallowed. She trailed up the side of his neck and caught his jaw between her lips. He helped her clearly intended path along, angling his head to intercept her mouth with his own.

Consumed by passion, he raised his body above her, protecting her from the prying gaze of the moon as his lips danced wildly against hers. She was finally able to fully savor his unyielding weight as he flipped her beneath him. She felt the silky splash of sheets behind her back, the fluffy resistance of the pillow behind her head. Suffering from the same thirst, Carlisle sighed into her and clasped her hips gently, urging her closer, inch by inch.

She felt his amazingly warm fingers trail down her stomach in a lazy labyrinth, past her bellybutton and along her thigh. She flinched **–** but only because his touch was so caring, so tender. It was completely foreign to her to have a man touching her in this way. He spoke to her like a poet, and touched her like she was a flower. His voice came to her, fragile and husky, asking her to trust him.

Her hands met protectively over her midriff, so very tempted to cover herself from his invasive gaze. But his hand splayed securely over both of hers, anchoring them there as he passed the invisible boundary. Slowly, he pulled the sheet away from her lap, and she didn't stop him.

"I won't touch you, Esme." He sounded heartbroken as he promised this, and it made her want to weep. "Not until you ask me to."

Years ago, the thought of any man touching her would have made her flee in terror. The thought was still intimidating, but not at all terrible. Now, she wanted it more than anything... and she felt guilty for wanting it.

She yearned to feel the heat of Carlisle's fingers fill the most intimate places of her body. She wanted him to touch her, to heal her as only a good doctor could. She knew that _he_ wanted this, perhaps even more fervently than she did...but the decision was hers alone.

The feeling of being both powerful and powerless at once was becoming a familiar one in this bed. Esme wondered if she could ever grow used to it. From the corner of her eye she could see Carlisle's hand waiting patiently beside her hip, his fingers moving so slightly it looked as if they were quivering. In his mind, he seemed to be touching her already, imagining how she would feel in case she never gave him permission to find out.

She swallowed her fears and gazed up at him, this achingly beautiful man with eyes full of candlelit wonder, and she knew with absolute certainty that she could trust him.

Before she could think twice, she reached down and grasped his waiting hand.

"Touch me, Carlisle."

The excitement swirled in his eyes like a stormy sea. With her blessing, he lifted his hand from the bed, carrying hers with him. As she watched his hand rise, she somehow thought it looked twice as large and twice as strong. It looked perfect and gold in the light of the candle, and his fingers looked a bit longer than she'd remembered.

Esme squirmed against the sheets, but as Carlisle placed a soothing kiss on her wrist, she relaxed into stillness. She barely flinched when she felt his warm palm against her thigh, but when she felt him gently pushing her leg to the side, she resisted.

"I won't hurt you," he whispered. She knew this, but her instincts were still ruled by unpleasant memories. She winced and covered one side of her face with her hand.

Esme wanted to cry again when she felt him gently stroking her leg, trying to coax the pain of her past away. "Try again?" he pleaded. She moved her hand away from her face and nodded.

This time he did not try to move her leg. Instead he simply touched her.

His first touch was feather-light, like butterfly wings fluttering against the crease of her inner thigh. But she was not the one who gasped at his first touch.

He was.

She dared to gaze at him from beneath her hooded eyes, watching the display of strange emotions color his beautiful face. He looked heartbroken, and unspeakably reverent, and so close to tears that she almost asked him to stop. But that would have been impossible.

He said her name as he felt her, his fingers discovering the moist evidence of her love for him. She could see everything in his expression **– **the utter disbelief, the humble passion **– **the thought that every part of her body belonged to him. His home was inside of her, and she was willingly offering him straight passage to her soul.

With startling immediacy, she felt herself blooming from within, in response to his simple touch. She could feel the cool metal caress of his wedding band as his fingers passed across her bare skin. She shuddered when his concentrated fingers found the thirsting flower between her thighs, and he began to stroke her reverently. His fingertips were smooth, but so light she could barely feel them. Still, his touch took her breath away.

The pressure of his fingers increased ever so slightly against her, igniting sweet sounds of pleasure from her throat. The sounds she made encouraged him to move deeper, his fingers dipping between the delicate curtains of her flesh until she was positively throbbing. The indecent stinging inside of her frightened her at first, but as his gentle fingers further pried the petals of her femininity, she allowed herself to fall prey to his touch.

"Let me look into your eyes," he sighed. And in that moment Esme thought it completely, wonderfully obscene that he expected her to obey his request.

But, without question, she did it. She opened her eyes.

His eyes burned her like glowing charcoal, like he was swimming inside her mind somewhere. The breath left her lips as he touched her inside; the pressure was sweet but it was too much for her. She knew what was to come would test her even more, but the promise of that threat was so impossible to resist. Especially when he was looking at her with such violent tenderness.

His attention was unwavering, velvet fingers in her vestibule, the heat from his touch nearly making her perspire. Two of his fingers finally slid inside of her, and he gasped when she clenched around him. He dared to stretch his fingers within her, showing her what she was capable of, and she felt herself – no longer tense, but unfurling, delicate, dependent, needy. She almost cried when his fingers slipped away.

He stared at his fingers in amazement for a long moment, admiring the way they now glistened in the dim candlelight. He lifted his hand closer to his face, and Esme's heart jumped in shock, thinking he was about to lick his fingers... but instead his fingers fluttered down to curl against his hip, leaving behind a glossy streak of her venom along his skin.

He closed his eyes and bowed his head, seeming to regain his composure before he turned his attention back to her. His fingertips were still damp when they tenderly stroked the side of her slender neck. But that tender stroke was misleading.

At last, Carlisle kissed her with uninhibited passion as he moved to hover above her, slowly parting her thighs to help accommodate the span of his hips. This time, Esme did not even think to resist. She could see that he was hard again, perhaps even more than before, but it did not frighten her. With a heavy voice, he assured her that nothing of their union was to be feared.

He said that it was _sacred._

He whispered it, while patiently caressing the curves of her hips as he prepared her to take him inside of her. He swept one soft, firm palm down her belly, and in that one touch of his, she knew. She knew why rainstorms made her feel lonely, why hot water made her feel clean, why the burn of the sun on her skin made her feel human.

And now she knew why Carlisle's touch made her feel whole.

Lightheaded and trembling and terrified and thrilled, she wrapped her arms securely about his strong shoulders and stared directly at his heart.

"Esme?" His voice was so quiet, so shaky. "Do you want this?"

Her eyes opened wide as she watched him palm his straining erection with one hand.

"Yes..." She barely had the time to murmur her answer before he'd captured her small hand in his and pressed her fingers into the firm, rising flesh between his thick thighs. He was perversely hot, and weeping warm, wet venom into her hand. Esme gave a sharp gasp as an unexpected tide of arousal seeped from her own depths.

"Tell me you want me," he whispered darkly, sliding her fingers over his throbbing length, "inside of you..." His hand gave a firm squeeze, the muscles in his thighs twitching in beautiful, clutching waves.

Flustered by the sheer sensuality of his suggestion, Esme gripped Carlisle nervously, earning a sweet, strangled cry from her holy husband. She could feel everything – every delicate crease in his velvety skin, every precious vein that no longer served a purpose, every quiver of desire that threatened him to spill.

"I want you," she whimpered beneath him, twisting with need. "_Oh, I want you_..."

He shuddered with excitement as he controlled the curve of her hand around him, forcing her to feel the stunning effect her mere presence had on his body. "Feel me, Esme," he said, his voice bold and deep. "Feel what you have done to me."

She refused his gaze vehemently, thrashing her head to the side in a blunt escape from his enticing forwardness. Even so, her fingers could not escape the feel of him in her hand. His heat was scalding, his skin devastatingly smooth.

"Oh...Carlisle." Her breath caught as he gently guided her thumb over his tip, swirling the pad of her finger into the slick spot where his love was leaking readily.

Curiosity stabbed her mercilessly until she finally looked down. Her fingers were sparkling wet, and his thighs were bulging, straining to hold up the weight of his unruly desire. When he noticed her staring, his muscles twisted suddenly, hot with awareness. She pulled her hand away in shock as his hips shot forward, burying his burning length in the pile of silky blue covers between her legs.

By instinct, Esme clamped her damp palm protectively over her lap. Her sensitive flesh responded hotly to the sight in front of her, betraying her need for Carlisle to bury into _her _the way he had just buried himself into those covers.

He was shaking all over, and she thought he looked so beautiful this way – his tall, strapping body so vulnerable and so aching.

"I need you, Esme," he cried softly, his fingers imploring hers to move away from her lap. She watched in wonder as he lifted himself out of the covers, swollen hard and stretching toward her in a most loving threat.

_'Yes!' _her body screamed for what he was offering, '_He looks so beautiful, imagine how good he will feel when he fills you...'_

Esme's fingers reluctantly retreated, exposing her achy wet center. The sheer sight of him worked like magic on her feminine body, encouraging her legs to open slowly, shyly. With one sure hand, Carlisle flattened the sheets between them, clearing the way for their bodies to meet. He brushed the backs of his knuckles along her inner thigh, reverently pleading with her to spread her legs wider for him. Burning madly, she did.

Finally he touched her, in an intimate kiss of masculinity and femininity, as he let his hips rest between her thighs. At the peak of her anticipation, she could feel him tenderly prodding against her, his breathing heavy and uneven. From the sound of it, he seemed to be holding back sobs.

His hands formed a cradle beneath the small of her back, his fingers clutching and kneading at her skin, just like he did when they first danced together. Only now there was no fabric between them.

He pressed against her again, more firmly this time. The slightest pang made her wince, but the pleasure made her whimper. In his deep, gentle voice, he commanded her to never look away from his eyes.

Breathlessly, she obeyed him. His eyes were so different – piercing, almost ravaging – the color of tarnished honey. But beneath that desperation, Esme could see the kind and compassionate doctor from her childhood gazing down at her. Loving and vigilant, it felt as if he had already coupled them through their gazes.

He did not move a single inch further. And Esme suddenly realized, what happened next was all for _her _to decide. He was not forcing her to do _anything._ She was in complete control. She chose whether or not to let him inside. That spark of terror – the one she vaguely remembered from so long ago – never came. This choice was hers, and Carlisle was letting her make it alone.

The slightest physical connection they had felt so fragile, so strange. She whimpered again because of it, because she needed more. But she didn't know how to tell him.

He was still staring down at her, waiting for her. Suspense rolled like fire in his eyes, but his face was completely calm, almost tranquil. He breathed through open lips, and the sound reminded her of waves on the ocean – steady and soothing. She closed her eyes for a moment of renewal, and when she opened them again, something magical happened.

"Esme?"

He whispered his final plea, quiet as a prayer. And she forgot everything except for the burning warmth of his love, enveloping her from the rest of the world.

Her fingers traveled up to his face, painted invisible strokes across his cheek and down his jaw. She touched him as she would touch a sleeping newborn, and she hoped that he would understand this was how she gave her permission.

He did.

The excitement of a wild savage sparkled in his eyes, and it scared her out of her wits. Even so, she gripped both his arms, pulled his breath into her lungs, and answered his plea without a word. Her neck arched against the pillows as Carlisle's hips descended in his first painfully slow thrust.

She could feel the pressure of his entry – stiff, gliding, stretching – somehow so tentative even as he imposed force. So very _him._ His hardness still surpassed her imagination, cushioned by searing hot, swollen flesh.

His fingers clasped and quivered beneath her back, his entire body shaking with the effort to resist acting on impulse. There was a mysterious beauty in the pain she felt upon his entry, and though she struggled to associate with it something evil, she could not. She realized then, that she had never truly _felt _love in a more physical manifestation before. Because love _was _painful. But it was a pain that always chased itself away.

Carlisle murmured sweet, seductive words of encouragement into her ear as he carried through the tender invasion, and Esme succumbed to him with thrilling ease, despite the bittersweet cruelty that made pain inevitable. One of his hands moved fast to hold her cheek, and that sudden movement brought with it something hot and holy. As his fingers curled around her cheek, she sensed his urgency to link her to reality, his will to keep her in harmony with his motions, his care in making sure she felt loved.

She could see him vaguely through her hooded gaze, and she wondered why he looked so close to tears. She wondered if he wanted to cry for _her_, for the pain he knew he must be inflicting on her... Or did he instead wish to weep in exaltation, for the unimaginable pleasure he felt, beginning now, beating him mercilessly from within?

She imagined that he must have felt both these conflicting strains of emotion, and _that _was why he wanted to cry.

Overpowered by the greatest curiosity she had ever known, Esme dared to look down. What she saw reminded her of a provocative abstract painting; an angry pink flower swallowing a long white scroll. The sight was so strange and disturbing, it made her face very hot, and she had to look away. Impossible, she thought, that she could feel such fullness when he was not even halfway inside...

Noticing her distress, Carlisle paused for her, resting within her, and she felt a dark, sharp chill beneath the place where he was resting. In her innocence, she could only assume that her body was longing for him to continue his claim on her. But in his mercy, he had chosen to stop again, waiting for her to show him that she still wanted more.

In a loose, tremulous tangle of fingers, she gripped one of his hands and guided it into her lap, renewing her permission. His gentle fingers prodded the soft space of flesh beneath her navel, and the same hot, aching pressure filled her as he managed to move further.

Her eyes fluttered in exhausted relief until she clutched him from within, startled to find that there was more of him to hold. Much more.

"Take me deeper."

It was not a request. It was an order. As if he must have this, or he will die.

His voice was dark and carnal, but his eyes told the story of a soft-hearted beggar. Her most primal instinct was to tighten around him, thrust upward against him, do _anything _to fulfill his wish.

Held captive by his steadfast gaze, she did both.

And suddenly she could feel him there, hot and solid, unyielding as marble, buried in her balmy depths. His added weight heroically relieved the ache inside her, making her feel more complete than she thought possible. The heavy load of his hips lovingly crushed hers, touching her at every possible point, trapping her, flush beneath his body. The sensation was so wonderfully strange, so very different.

His scent was twice as powerful as he claimed her, and it made her dizzy. Every time he breathed out, she had to breathe him in. She was feeding off of him, filling herself with him, taking everything he had to offer. His strong neck lolled helplessly as his eyes closed, the hoarse grips of pleasure consuming his voice. "Finally," he breathed, pushing further, so slowly. "Ohh...finally."

Esme reeled with joy and held him tighter. He whispered things to her between sobs, how she felt like silk wrapped around him, how he never knew this kind of warmth was possible, how the home she provided him relieved his ache as well. She could feel every word he uttered gathering deep inside, like a garden of hot blossoms in her belly.

A luscious chill coiled under the base of her spine at that beautiful rasp in his voice, at the look in his eyes as he breathed her name repeatedly, building up a delicate friction between them, the brassy gleam of his cross dangling so close above her.

"Can you feel me?" he asked her raggedly, a scorching curiosity in his eyes.

She tilted her hips and closed her eyes, still trying to grasp his unbearable fullness. "Yes."

Very gently, he pushed further into her, ensuring her honesty. Then he uttered the deepest, most secret question he had ever asked her.

"What do I feel like?"

Her body blushed all over. _He wanted to know what he felt like?_

Oh, how could she even begin to describe it?

By some miracle, she whispered back to him; how he had given her more than she could ask for. How he felt like strong, solid salvation tucked inside of her. How the precise, tender insertion of his key had unlocked her at last. Every description she offered him made his breath quicken and his eyes glisten with unrestrained thirst.

This world was finally open for them. Together, they had unlocked it.

Carlisle showed Esme how vicious love could be, flowering from a holy man. His precise fingers demonstrated every preposition upon her skin, his vigilant eyes blackened into the remnants of a burnt wick. He touched her like a saint touched unholy hearts, and all the while she swore she could hear the faint, beckoning melody of his violin playing inside her head. When she made the slightest sound, he kissed her as if he couldn't help himself. And he kissed her with a force that would have left her lips battered had she been any more breakable.

She choked out his name, and it was lost in his mouth as his tongue tore her lips apart for entry. The overabundance of _connection_ was terrifying – first by gaze, then by mouth, then by flesh. In this infinite tangle it was impossible for them to feel themselves as separate entities.

The instinct, both of vampire and of purely being man and woman, consumed them without warning. Out of nowhere, their hips began to undulate desperately against each other in a motion unlearned and untamed.

The control that once belonged to her now belonged to Carlisle, but he used it to both their advantage. His every motion was swift and fluid, but at its essence, entirely feral. He was fascinating like this – with a shining black fire in his eyes, a hungry heat in his embrace – and everything about him was contagious.

Esme lost herself to the siege. Newborn or not, she knew somewhere in her soul that this control would have never lasted. Not even for Carlisle.

Their joint movement was so foreign. A deep, tender, tearing pressure. Like a shallow tide, as it shyly curled on the beach. It eased in and out, ebbing and flowing. It retreated and returned, with varying, unpredictable strength every time. Never once the same, always changing. This was not real movement. This was gliding between sound and water; this was dark, swirling paintbrush strokes around their bodies, in the air. It was learning to make art with a blindfold. It was swimming without liquid. It was flying without wind.

The sounds he made were like nothing she had ever heard before. Loose, luxurious, leonine sounds – uninhibited and unrelenting. The flickering candles he had lit grew dimmer and dimmer as he moved over her, their lights playing on his beautiful face. Splashes of faint, rosy candlelight colored his bare skin and softened his expressions of pleasure. There were fleeting flashes of light between shadows where Esme could see Carlisle; in the candlelight an angel, in the shadows a vampire. She felt for the first time that she was seeing him _as a vampire_, and she loved the vampire within him as fiercely as she loved the man.

She still had so much yet to discover about this vampire lurking inside her husband. Only here was Carlisle safe to show her this. Only here, between these sheets, in the throes of this hypnotic rhythm, was she safe to show _herself _to him.

And her panting was just as harsh, her purrs were just as plush, her throat was trembling with the need to respond, but unable to form coherent words. Her voice was reduced to that of an animal. She could do little more than growl in appreciation when he touched her this way.

It was hard to believe that this man – this wild, passionate, magnificent creature – was her Carlisle. He was so intensely consumed by the art of his rhythm, perfecting it with every thrust, growing stronger by the second. Every time he beat against her, he only seemed to gain power, as if any slip in his stamina would destroy them both. He was keeping her alive with every breath, every grunt, every jolt within her. He seemed so thrilled when she whimpered, so enraptured when she clutched him tighter. All he could do was go on. And on. And on. He was rushing past all reason, racing against time, ruining his control, slaughtering his modesty...all for her.

He purred loving words that made little sense as he filled her, and he was so unpredictable with his force; first a gentle nudge, then a violent stab. And the unpredictability – the hard against soft, the tender against rough – made it all the more pleasurable to her. His words must have meant everything, but now they meant nothing. Why would they communicate by voice when they were already fluent in the language of the flesh?

But he continued forming these words with his beautiful lips, and like his motions, they were unpredictable. First bold and Biblical, profound and pure; then suddenly shocking and indecent. Oh, the things he said! To think this was her Carlisle, speaking such things. They were unmentionable, the things he was saying to her. Yet Esme fell victim to the virus of such speech, flowing freely from her angelic husband's mouth.

Esme responded to the words Carlisle spoke, either by sounds alone or true words with meaning. But he understood her, both her words and her sounds. He understood her perfectly, sliding out when she gasped, and burying himself when she cried for him.

Unaware of her own strength, Esme shuddered under his weight, lifting her hips anxiously with every fleeting retreat. His hands seized her from behind, holding her aloft as he delved back inside of her, his voice exhausted as he murmured her name over and over in time with his thrusts. When he was not looking into her eyes, he was watching himself as he speared her, hypnotized by the abstract beauty of their linked flesh. Whether in a roar or a whisper, she could hear the strength and magnitude of his love for her, and her fears were all trampled to dust.

The prickling pain, the burning bite of his thrusts slowly but surely subsided with every inch he offered, every depth he demanded of her. At last it was no longer a pain, but only a strong, stretching pressure within her. There was something so primal, so very territorial about the way he passionately intruded her, becoming one, carnate with her body. She could feel his desperation growing with each siege of deliberate force, and she could feel herself becoming weaker, more submissive to his ministrations as he carried on. Everything about it was beautiful.

Miraculously, she accommodated him, splayed and sore around his lovingly oppressive girth. She confessed to him in a trembling whisper that she feared she might break, and he made a passionate promise that he would _never _break her. Yet he was so clearly thrilled by her confession, it inspired him to give her more.

It made her shiver just knowing he was somehow tucked inside of her – _all _of him – length and width and mass, sheathed to the very hilt. He slid one hand down between their bodies so that his two strongest fingers could fight a gentle battle upon her flesh to bring her the most pleasure. The battle quickly became an unforgiving war, all gentleness cast aside for a new, gnawing desperation.

He indulged her generously with his tireless fingers, until all of his movements were one tormenting blur stirring inside and outside and over and between. He wanted to see her shatter.

Her saint-like doctor, by injuring her decency, would ultimately heal her heart.

Oh, he was such a good doctor. _Such a good...doctor..._

At the climax of that unbearable sensation, he finally mastered his rhythm, stroking firmly and deeply within her, feverishly jousting the curve of her cervix, every move pure instinct. Every slip of his satin skin against hers, every bold brush of his fingertips loosened another thread of her control until she could bear it no more without breaking apart at the seams.

It was the depth that did it – the fine, slick shock as he pierced the very deepest spot within her. The single, strong touch of him in a place that had never been touched. She gasped when he struck it, and he sank deeper yet, navigating the passage between them as if he had traveled it every day of his life. Every doubt she'd had since the sun had set that night seemed so foolish now. She was so open for him, he could have slipped the very universe inside of her, and it would have been a perfect fit. _He _was a perfect fit. When she felt him, in that untouched crevice so deep inside, she had to wonder if this was where her soul resided, if he had broken through to her soul.

A liquid hot eruption burst between them, causing Esme's entire body to seize with a wonderful, quaking, perverted sort of pleasure. She uttered his name several times over in a series of worshipful, ravished sighs. The scandalous sensations seized her from all around as he breathlessly pumped his release, milking the last morsels of pleasure from their union. All the while, she writhed as if she were being tortured, lost in Carlisle's strong, striking gaze.

She could feel the anthem of his powerful lungs working against her as his hands lifted her off the soft pillows and into the empty air. What she felt then was too strange for words. It crippled her, first feeling like it would never bring her the satisfaction it promised. Then, just when she thought it would leave her numb, it clutched her from the inside, shredding her dignity. Her head descended from his hands to the pillow as he kissed her like a savage, consuming her with all the strength he had left.

Never breaking the kiss, he whimpered into her as he unleashed the searing fountain of his love into her womb. Esme cried out when she felt the evidence of his ecstasy – a hot, passionate force bursting deep within her, in a place only he could reach. That place had spent forever cold and empty, and finally, he was filling it. She whimpered his name against his chin, and he clutched her tighter as he poured everything of himself into her.

"Oh, Esme, my love... Dear Lord_, _if I'd... If I'd only known_..._" He was weeping senselessly as he collapsed on top of her, and she wondered what his words could have meant.

Carlisle was absolutely radiant in his humility. Shaking with sobs, he curled over her small body as the last of the surviving candles tried to warm his back. Esme was staggered by the sight of him looking so vulnerable after everything he had just done to her. She found it nearly impossible to reconcile him with the strong, unrelenting, beastly lover who had moments ago so blissfully given up his virginity.

Her throat was too tight to speak, but she still said the words for him. The "I," then the "love," then the "you."

Esme's entire body shuddered with the humbling power of their shared release, and in that moment the pleasure was so strangely pure, so heartbreaking in its perfection that she was suddenly able to meet his gaze without a single ounce of fear or discomfort.

She should have been unable to meet his eyes while it happened – she should have been _mortified _by staring into this man's eyes – she should have been exquisitely humiliated.

But she was not any of these things.

The only thing she felt was one deep, piercing need that obliterated all others – one reason, one purpose, one desire, one soul – from one man. Everything was _one._

Carlisle held her still with both hands as he gently parted their bodies, and though their physical connection had broken, their emotional connection only became more powerful. Blissfully sore, Esme wrapped her thighs around his waist and pulled him back down, unwilling to let him move too far. She felt him as he luxuriated into her lap, soft and spent, so different from how he had started the night, but no less beautiful.

Slowly, their panting breaths tapered into a contented lull. Their naked bodies settled from the high, melded together by a tight, trembling embrace. Silently, they stared into each other as the tremors passed through them, filled with boundless wonder over what they had done, overcome by sheer bewilderment at having been made into one.

When Carlisle moved to kiss her, Esme bit him. Softly first, on his neck, nowhere near the scars he had already. She found a sweet, empty spot to claim as her own. He cried out as she soothingly sank her teeth into his skin, savoring the soft give of his flesh. She wanted to mark him as he had marked her.

In response, his lips bit their way brazenly down from her throat to her shoulder before he pulled the covers over their bodies, trapping their warmth where they could savor it for as long as it lasted.

Satisfied by the soft marks his teeth had left on her skin, Carlisle raised one hand from underneath her to affectionately caress the column of her throat with the backs of his fingers. The simplicity of his light touch was, in a strange way, even more erotic than what had preceded it. As his fingers passed over the faded spots of his teeth, his eyes glinted and his lips parted, and Esme knew what would come next.

His mouth dove into the crook of her neck then, gently catching the smooth flesh between his lips to lovingly suckle the two prominent scars that would mark her forever.

She squeezed his hips appreciatively with her knees beneath the covers, turning them over onto their sides, face to face on the same pillow. As her fingers weaved into the curling ends of his hair, he lifted his eyes to stare into hers, so close that his gaze was entirely inescapable.

There was a moment – so hard to believe that this was all it truly was – just one moment, where Esme could feel and see and hear everything from their past together, a bittersweet string of memories she held fondly in her heart.

She saw Carlisle's hands securing her fingers to an archer's bow. Her hands tucking a red scarf lovingly about his neck. His head leaning hopelessly against a rainy window pane as his fingers played with the velvet curtains. The deviously charming little half-smile he sent her way as he absently toyed with his stethoscope. His finger tracing over the coastline on a map of South America. His arms lifting her up so she could hang the tiny crystal dove on the top of their Christmas tree. Her fleeting glimpse of his bare back as he tossed his blood-stained sweater into the fireplace. The fierce anger in his face as he told her he wished death on the man who had abused her. The three buttons of his collar undone while he carved alone, outside in the snow. His golden eyes looking down at her with pity and overwhelming compassion just before she died...

She heard his voice murmuring in her mind, "_Stay close now," _and _"I don't want us to lose each other," _and _"Once in a while I like to feed the birds," _and _"Because I could not bear to watch you die..." _

It was all too much to feel in one instant alone, and it almost hurt her, but even now she knew that she wanted to feel it over and over again, with _him,_ every day, for forever.

And she wanted to feel it everywhere – by the fireplace in his study, in the gardens at dusk, under the weeping willow, in the middle of Lake Cordial, beside the snowy windows on Christmas morning, beneath flashes of fireworks on New Year's Eve, in the warm sands of some exotic island...

And she wanted to give him _so much more_ than she had given him this night – she wanted to touch every inch of him, taste every part of him, unveil him from the inside out, and love him until he could no longer stand.

Carlisle saw this – all of this – because he was so far inside her, deeper by gaze than by any physical point below the waist. He saw it, and the look in his eyes answered her passion with the same unspoken promise: _All of eternity is ours, my love. _

His eyes at last closed in contentment, and he gently nudged his face as close as possible to hers, touching the tip of his nose to hers, rubbing his cheek against hers, the line of his jaw brushing along hers. A tiny thrill spiraled inside of her when she felt the unexpected touch of his lips; the feathery tease of his eyelashes against her forehead. All while he held her tighter than he probably realized beneath the warm layers of sheets, hands firm, fingers massaging slow calligraphic patterns into her waist. His every breath was like candy, and his feet were hooked around her ankles, and his arms felt so heavy around her, and it was all so _deliciously intimate _–this strange, slow session that followed such heated reckless abandon just moments before.

"You're mine now, Esme. Only mine, forever..."

She noticed the way it did not sound possessive when he said it. Or perhaps it did, but not in a demanding, domineering way. Rather, he whispered it as a tender but passionate promise. She only ever wanted to belong to him, and now she could say that she truly did.

Her eyes adoringly mapped every precious curve and angle of his familiar face, still amazed that he desired _her _more than anything else in the world. In the cooling fires of his gaze she saw the loneliness of the years before he met her, she felt the pain of his transformation, and she heard the soft song of his faith in the life to come.

"I am yours," she told him, her voice laden with the residue of their passions.

How could they go on like this, knowing their love was capable of creating such wonders? How could they release each other when the morning came, and abandon this precious union? How could they ever become _two,_ again?

His eyes told her the answer.

They never had to be anything less than _one. _The damage of this miracle had been done, and its soils were irreversible.

They had painted the empty canvas of these newly shredded sheets, and they had filled the hollow canvas of their hearts. These colors were stained there forever.

They had written whispered words on the empty pages of these pillows, and they had filled the unwritten pages of their souls. These words were marked there forever.

Hours went by as they lay in each other's arms, using the darkness as only they could, without a wink of sleep. Then, in the very middle of the night, when the moon was on the other side of the sky, and the last of the candles had gone out, his fingers took hold of hers, and she could feel a little piece of forever in the pressure of each against her skin.

And finally, Esme believed that Carlisle truly did love her and want her and need her as much as she loved, wanted, and needed him. At last she believed that eternity had invaluable worth. That faith still stood the test of time and doubt. That the fire in her heart was as eternal as that faith. That her body, mind, heart, and soul had belonged to Carlisle all along.

For Esme, there was no greater testimony to the existence of her soul than that of sharing her soul with Carlisle. It did not matter that they were immortal, and it did not matter that they were no longer human. If they could love each other in this most beautiful and holiest of ways, then their souls had not lost a single beam of heaven's blessed light.

Even if they were stained glass souls.

* * *

**You can now read this scene in Chapter 43 of Behind Stained Glass from Carlisle's point of view. Stay tuned for an epilogue! **

**Thank you again to everyone who took the time to read this story! I deeply appreciate your comments. :)**

**Mackenzie**


	65. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

* * *

_Spring, 1972_

He said he was going to surprise her for their 50th wedding anniversary.

She considered all the things he might do for her. Roses on her pillow, new jewelry on her vanity table, an impromptu trip to their island. But he took this surprise in an utterly different direction.

On the morning of their anniversary, he escorted her into their car and made her keep her eyes closed the entire time he drove. He must have driven through at least four states because it was the longest drive Esme ever had to sit through. Being blindfolded made it even harder to handle.

Still, it wasn't the first time her husband had tortured her for a good cause. Whatever Carlisle planned was always worth waiting for in the end.

"We're here," he said at last, a smile in his voice. He promptly reached over to cover her eyes with his hand.

"I won't look," Esme sighed, fidgeting in her seat as he brought the car around a bend and slowly pressed on the brake.

The instant the car was parked, she opened her door and swung her feet out. Gravel crunched beneath her shoes.

She gasped in confusion and took an exploratory breath of fresh springtime air. The scents around her were so familiar, but...they couldn't be.

The urge to open her eyes was nearly unbearable for Esme, but her husband slammed the car door shut and rushed up behind her to embrace her forehead with his hands.

"I told you I wouldn't look!" she shouted with laughter as Carlisle guided her clumsily across the gravel. "Don't you trust me?"

"No," he whispered, the smile still so strong in his voice. Her heart fluttered with excitement as he touched his lips to the back of her neck and nudged her forward.

"When can I see?" she whined like a little girl.

"In just a few minutes," he murmured cryptically. She began to doubt his sincerity when he rested his chin on her shoulder from behind and began to chew gently on her earlobe.

"Are you really going to show me this surprise, or are you just taking advantage of me because I can't see anything?" she demanded. A naughty chuckle slipped from his very busy lips, and she felt a shiver of delight race down the back of her neck.

"Don't be silly," he whispered, stroking her ear with his finger. "I wouldn't drive you all the way to Wisconsin for nothing, would I?"

Her breath caught in her throat at the obvious hint.

"Wisconsin?"

His hands parted slowly from her eyes, unveiling a vision of blinding brightness before her.

Fifty years had passed since she had stood on this property. Even with a perfect memory, there were so many details that her mind simply could not bring to life. The plush green meadows of grass that grew all around the house, the rusty mint steeples that decorated the solarium on the west wing, the mysterious dead rose color of the bricks, and the majestic number of chimneys that towered over all parts of the roof. There was nothing quite like seeing it all again, up close and solid, after such a long time.

And right now, as she stood, stunned, with her husband's hands on her shoulders, Esme still believed that Chartercrest Estate was the single most beautiful home they had ever owned. She had a feeling she would always think of it that way; after all, it was here where they had fallen in love.

Sprawling and intricate, the mansion had certainly not lost much of its romance over the years. In fact it did not look so different from the day she'd first seen it. Bright green tendrils of ivy clung to the dark brick and stone walls, dotted with unexpected blooms of white where wild flowers grew. Every iron railed balcony was crusted with rust that glistened like ruby powder in the sunlight. The roof shingles had been dulled and battered by years of beating sun and heavy rain, and the windows were covered in permanent shadows.

As aged as it was, this property still had an indescribably magical feel to it.

When Esme had lived in the house with Carlisle, she had devoted a good portion of her time to refurbishing it to make it look like new again. When she looked at the house now, she saw all of her hard work erased after fifty years of neglect. But it didn't upset her. The erosion of time was just a reminder of how long a life she'd already shared with her husband.

"Oh, Carlisle," she sighed as her gaze swept across the grand façade. "It's been so long."

"Only fifty years," he whispered, amused.

"But it's still so...beautiful."

He nodded and rested his chin on top of her head. "I doubt anyone else has lived in it since we left."

A little tingle of happiness shot through her heart at the idea that this house had never been occupied by another family since she and Carlisle had left. It truly belonged to _them._

"I can't believe we're actually standing here again," she stated, still in shock. Even the ground beneath her feet felt familiar.

Carlisle let go of her and slipped his hand into his pocket. "I still have the key," he said with a humble but victorious smile. "Do you want to go inside?"

Resisting the urge to jump with excitement, Esme nodded eagerly and followed her husband up the creaky porch steps to the front door. The key still fit inside the lock perfectly after so many years. Carlisle effortlessly pushed the door open and nudged his wife to enter first.

The smell of must and age was so strong that Esme almost missed the familiar twinge of something she remembered from long ago. When it came to recollections, images were indeed powerful, but nothing was more emotionally wrenching to her memories than her sense of smell.

Every breath she took was filled with an aromatic array of nostalgic scents. Old wood, pine, soot and smoke, and that vague, unidentifiable incense smell she remembered being most prominent in Carlisle's study.

The first thing Esme noticed when she stepped into the foyer was the closet where they used to keep their coats. The old wooden door whined in protest when she pried it open to see the empty space inside.

"Every morning before I left for the hospital you hurried to this closet to hold my coat out for me," Carlisle recalled with fondness.

Esme grinned at the memory, looking up to meet his hazy reflection in the dusty old mirror that hung beside the closet. "I remember."

His chest met with her back as he moved in behind her. "And every time you did it, I always hoped that our hands would somehow touch." Her heart fluttered when she felt his palm press gently against hers.

"If I recall correctly they did," she reminded him with a smirk, "on more than one occasion."

He nodded, his eyes sparkling. "I made sure of it."

She didn't resist him when he turned her slowly around and bent down to kiss her. In his kiss she could feel a quiet flame; that wonderful, reticent warmth Carlisle hid from everyone but her. As his lips gently opened and closed around hers, she was comforted by the mutual relief that they had each other forever. They no longer needed to exchange coats at the closet as an excuse to touch the other's hand.

At long last, his lips parted lazily from hers, but his fingers stayed firmly around her wrist.

"Aren't you going to take me on a tour?" she asked him flirtatiously, gesturing with her head toward the hall behind them.

"That was the plan." He gave her hand a loving tug and began to lead her deeper into the house.

"Be careful of the loose floorboards," he warned, earning a careless chuckle in response. She pretended to trip just to tease him.

He half smiled, his dark golden eyes filled with a certain private joy as he glanced back at her. Esme felt the need to hold her breath, to keep the sweet, fleeting moment intact.

It was amazing, she thought, how connected she felt to this house. Each room told a different story, and as they walked slowly through the halls, it was as if they had never left. They relived their bittersweet history as they explored every room, reminding each other of the special moments they had shared in each.

Decorating their first Christmas tree together in the parlor. Their first moonlit walk through the solarium. The night they spent baking pastries in the kitchen. The tension-filled, whispery evenings they shared in Carlisle's study, reading books by the light of a roaring fire. Every memory left a permanent warm spot in her heart, a unique puzzle piece of their blossoming love over time.

They stopped in the ballroom to admire the peeling paint on the wall panels. Esme remembered when she had worked for months to finish repainting every panel herself. The old Renaissance frescos of coy, dancing women had been carefully covered by intricate leaves of green. Now Esme saw that her layer of paint was fading away, leaving the dancing girls to peek out at her from behind the jungle leaves.

They walked the perimeter of the ballroom side by side, reminiscing about the times they had avoided dancing together. Then they strolled through the dining room, which they'd never used (except for making paper flowers), and into the solarium which was covered from floor to ceiling in overgrowth and wild foliage.

As they walked from room to room, Carlisle held out one of his hands to feel the walls, the doors, the wooden railings. His fingers moved slowly, almost sensually over each piece of the house, elaborating his memories with a keen sense of touch. He was like a child exploring the world for the first time.

Esme walked blindly beside him, her attention so focused on the movements of his fingers that she failed to see where he had led her. She found herself again at the foot of the massive staircase in the front hall, and Carlisle was taking the first step.

He looked over his shoulder, staring down at her with an almost mischievous look in his eyes. Dust sparkled in the air behind him, drawing an aura of ethereal beauty around his face. "Let's go upstairs."

A flash of heat filled Esme's cheeks at her husband's esoteric whisper.

She eyed the stairs warily, questioning their soundness after fifty years of neglect. They looked sturdy enough, but would they hold?

Seeing the worry in her face, Carlisle laughed gently and took tight hold of her elbow, helping her onto the first step with him. The stairs creaked and groaned beneath their weight, but they took their time in spite of the old house's protests, wanting to savor the journey as if they were a human couple.

Esme peered over the edge of the banister as she climbed the steps higher with Carlisle's arm around her waist. She watched the checkerboard tiles get smaller and smaller with each step upward, scaling a steep jungle of broken floorboards and cobweb canopies.

When they finally reached the top, she sighed in relief and brushed the dust from her dress. Carlisle didn't care to brush the dust off his clothes. Instead he continued to walk around with those pesky spots of gray on his shirt. It reminded Esme of the way he let himself become covered in sawdust whenever he worked on his wood-carvings. She grinned to herself, wondering if he even noticed.

She was about to reach out and brush some of the dust off of him, but he moved before she could touch him. He opened the nearest door at the end of the upper level hall and peeked inside with awestruck eyes. "Look, Esme... Your library."

Esme followed quickly to look inside as well. The shelves had all been stripped of their books many years ago. Esme had taken many of them with her when they moved, but the ones she had left behind were all still in small piles on the floor. She bent over to pick one up and read the title. _Bavarian Fairy Tales._

She brushed her fingers across the dark green book cover, leaving dark tracks behind where the dust was cleared. Finding all the books she had left behind was like discovering memories she had somehow forgotten. She couldn't bear the thought of leaving them here now that she had found them again.

"I want to take the rest of these books with us when we leave," she said in a hushed voice to her husband, who was busy thumbing through some of the books in another dusty pile.

He looked up at her and nodded, his eyes warm.

Not caring if she got dust on her now, Esme knelt on the ground and began to dig through the pile, sweeping dust everywhere and squinting to read the familiar titles. "I don't know why I left so many behind," she mused.

"They weren't as important to you back then," Carlisle said softly, rising to stand close beside her while she excitedly sorted through all of her old books.

She could feel his eyes on her, his everlasting patience hovering like a comforting beam of sunlight over her back. When she finally looked up at him, she found him smiling down at her, deeply amused.

She hugged a small stack of books against her breast and looked at him defiantly. "And what are you smirking at?"

"Nothing," he said nonchalantly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I'm just admiring the spectacle you've made of yourself."

"I'm not a spectacle," she protested lamely. Though covered from knees to feet in dust bunnies with at least twenty spineless books stacked on her lap, she imagined she was exactly that.

Her heart fluttered at the frustratingly affectionate rumble of Carlisle's laughter. "My dear, you're rummaging around on the floor like an enthused archaeologist at an excavation site."

As a gentleman should, he proffered his hand to her, wiggling his fingers in invitation.

Esme bit down to keep from smiling as she begrudgingly accepted his hand. With her other arm she managed to balance half of the books she was carrying. "I can take them home with me, can't I?"

Carlisle shook his head, grinning in that broad, jocular way so there were beautiful smile lines carved into his cheeks. "Of course you can, sweetheart," he murmured in a voice so loving she felt a blushing heat creep around her neck. He cupped her face in his large hands and pressed a pleasant kiss to her forehead.

Feeling complacent, Esme let Carlisle pry the stack of books from her arms. He placed them down on the table by the window and took her hand, guiding her back towards the door. "We'll gather them all on our way out," he promised, tugging her back into the hall.

She wondered why he was so eager to leave the library until he had pushed her along to the next door. He paused before opening it, holding his breath.

Because the sun shined on the opposite side of the house during late afternoon, the room was filled with dark, warm shadows. Everything was blue - the carpets, the walls, the lampshades, the bed sheets, the curtains. That remarkable blue had lasted all these years - even time could never wash it away. Just outside the windows, a generous view of the gardens and backyard lake stretched out in panoramic splendor. As the clouds raced across the sky, temperamental spring sunlight flickered over the walls and floors, enhancing the illusion of being underwater.

All of the furniture was gone, except for the bed, which was too large to move out of the room. It was either leave the bed here, or move it out in pieces. On the day they'd left this house, they'd made a joint decision to leave the bed in the room where it belonged.

Out of all the rooms in this house, the master bedroom seemed to have changed the least. Esme supposed it was because the one key piece of furniture remained.

And it didn't look any different than the last time she'd seen it. The velvet blue canopy had protected any dust from collecting on the bed covers, so the silk still looked smooth and clean, and the pillows were still as fat and full as she remembered.

As they looked silently around the room, Carlisle's finger began to trace slow, sensual little circles against the inside of her wrist.

The longer he went without speaking, the more erotic she perceived his silence to be. She longed to know what he was thinking, though she was certain she knew the exact nature of his thoughts. The way his fingers were moving across her skin told her everything.

She opened her mouth to speak, but her intended words turned into an empty breath. Carlisle straightened up behind her, taking the burden upon himself to speak first in the wake of his wife's speechless silence.

"I remember every night we spent in this room," he murmured, his voice low and soft as he continued massaging the inside of her wrist with his masculine fingers. "It feels like we never left."

Humming her agreement, Esme turned to embrace him. "It really does."

To humans, age was such a fragile thing. Ten years made a decade, and ten decades made a lifetime. It was a frightening thing to think about, but she sometimes wondered what would happen to Carlisle if he were human. If they had met somewhere in the strains of time, some crossing point where he was only several years older than her rather than several centuries. Sometimes she imagined the ways his face and his body and his voice would have changed over the years of their very long marriage.

Other women probably dreamed the opposite, fantasizing instead about what their husbands would look like if they never aged at all. But that dream was Esme's reality. Carlisle's body was eternally twenty-three years ripe, his face free of lines, his hair forever as golden as the sun. The only visible sign of age she saw in him was the sage glimmer in his eyes when he told stories of his past. But she also heard it in his voice - in the quiet, tender inflections of his poetic remarks about everyday nothings.

As she looked up and stared into the eyes of the man who loved her more than life itself, Esme realized she would not have traded any of it to be human again.

They made the most of what they had, and they appreciated every instant they shared together. They took what they could from this experience, both proverbially and physically.

All of the little trinkets and treasures that they had left behind from their last move were packed away into the car before they left the grounds. They each carried four armfuls of books down the stairs, and stuffed them into the already dusty back seat.

On their last trip down the staircase Carlisle turned to Esme, his face caught in a ray of sunlight by the window. He raised one arm to shield his eyes so he could see her more clearly, and the back of his hand glowed like soft white fire when the sun touched it. In the shadow cast by his arm, he smiled knowingly at her.

_'Can you believe we've come this far together?' _his eyes seemed to say.

And she thought he was the most beautiful thing ever created.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she reached up to lovingly brush the dust from his shoulders. She giggled softly as she patted him down, wondering how on earth he'd managed to get dust in his hair. "You're going gray," she joked as she tossed his blond locks about with her fingers.

He smirked appreciatively. "Have you forgotten? I _am _an antique, you know."

Esme laughed heartily. "Hm, yes. You're centuries old and covered in dust. You certainly belong here." Her hands swiped the dust from his chest roughly, but the kiss she placed on his chin was more than gentle.

Carlisle closed his eyes with a smile. "We both belong here."

"Our memories remain here," she reasoned as she gazed around the nostalgic interior of the house, "but _we_ must move on."

He stared at her for a long moment, then finally whispered, "Thank you for coming here with me."

"No, thank you for bringing me here with you."

"We'll come back again someday?" he asked hopefully.

"I hope so," she sighed.

Esme took her husband's hand and ventured out the front door, and back up the cobblestone walkway. When she reached the road at the top of the hill, she turned around for one last look at the house that had defined her destiny.

Although all the windows on the façade had lost their luminosity over the years, one tiny stained glass window above the front door still shimmered brightly in the sun.

* * *

**The End**


End file.
